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et  de  haut  en  bas.  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  nicessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  m6thode. 


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OFF-HAND   STORIES 


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I. 

OLD    MAN    SAVARIN 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


■^         1 


__ . . ____ 

r 

OFF-HAND   STORIES 

i 

Old  Man  Savarin 

. 

• 

anD  <Dtt^r  Storied 

BY 

EDWARD   WILLIAM  THOMSON 

r  1 

i 

/ 

i 

* 

NEW  YORK:  46  East  i4Th  Street 

THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  &  COMPANY 

BOSTON:  100  Purchase  Street 

.<A. 

, 

145346 


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't  A 


T^O^As^^^;f  ^' 


Copyright,  1895, 
By  T.  Y.  Crowell  &  Co. 


u 


John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge,  U.  S.  A. 


J 


CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

I.    Old  Man  Savarin 7 

II.  The  Privilege  of  the  Limits     ...      29 

III.  McGrath's  Bad  Night 45 

IV.  Great  Godfrey's  Lament 67 

V.  The  Red-headed  Windego      ....     89 

VI.  The  Shining  Cross  of  Rigaud  ...    109 

VII.    Little  Baptiste .125 

VIII.  The  Ride  by  Night     .......    152 

IX.    Drafted 174 

X.    A  Turkey  Apiece 199 

XI.    Grandpapa's  Wolf  Story 219 

XII.    The  Waterloo  Veteran .,7 

XIII.  John  Bedell 251 

XIV.  Verbitzsky's  Stratagem 271 


n 


For  liberty  to  issue  these  stories  in  present 
form  the  author  has  to  thank  Messrs.  Perry  Mason 
&*  Co.^  Boston^  the  proprietors  of  "  Two  Tales^"*  in 
which  '^^Old  Man  Savarin  "  and  '■'■Great  Godfrey'' s 
Lament  ''"'first  appeared;  and  '•'-Harper's  Weekly  " 
and  Mr.  S.  S.  McClure's  syndicate  of  newspapers^ 
which f  respectively^  first  published  ^^The  Privilege 
of  the  Limits  "  and  ^^fohn  Bedell.'''' 


i  - 


OLD   MAN   SAVARIN. 


esent 
'ason 
F,"  in 
"rey's 
^kly  " 
ipers, 
nlege 


OLD  Ma'ame  Paradis  had  caught  seventeen 
small  dor^,  four  suckers,  and  eleven 
channel-catfish  before  she  used  up  all  the 
worms  in  her  tomato-can.  Therefore  she  was 
in  a  cheerful  and  loquacious  humor  when  I 
came  along  and  offered  her  some  of  my  bait. 

"Merci;  non,  M'sieu.  Dat's  'nuff  fishin* 
for  me.  I  got  too  old  now  for  fish  too  much. 
You  like  me  make  you  present  of  six  or  seven 
dor6?  Yes?  All  right.  Then  you  make  me 
present  of  one  quarter  dollar."      ' 

When  this  transaction  was  completed,  the 
old  lady  got  out  her  short  black  clay  pipe, 
and  filled  it  with  tabac  blanc. 

«  Ver'  good  smell  for  scare  mosquitoes,"  said 
she.     "Sit  down,  M'sieu.     For  sure  I  like  to 


8 


OLD  MAN  SAyAK/y. 


be  here,  me,  for  see  the  river  when  she  's  like 
this." 

Indeed  the  scene  'vas  more  than  picturesque. 
Her  fishing-platform  extended  twenty  feet  from 
the  rocky  shore  of  the  great  Rataplan  Rapid 
of  the  Ottawa,  which,  beginning  to  tumble  a 
mile  to  the  westward,  poured  a  roaring  torrent 
half  a  mile  wide  into  the  broader,  calm  brown 
reach  below.  Noble  elms  towered  on  the 
shores.  Between  their  trunks  we  could  see 
many  whitewashed  cabins,  whose  doors  of  blue 
or  green  or  red  scarcely  disclosed  their  colors 
in  that  light. 

/;  The  sinking  sun,  which  already  touched  the 
river,  seemed  somehow  the  source  of  the  vast 
stream  that  flowed  radiantly  from  its  blaze. 
Through  the  glamour  of  the  evening  mist  and 
the  maze  of  June  flies  we  could  see  a  dozen 
men  scooping  for  fish  from  platforms  like  that 
of  Ma'ame  Paradis. 

,,  Each  scooper  lifted  a  great  hoop-net  set  on 
a  handle  some  fifteen  feet  long,  threw  it  easily 


'^ 


\ 


OLD  MAN  SAVARIN. 


up  Stream,  and  swept  it  on  edge  with  the  cur- 
rent to  the  full  length  of  his  reach.  Then  it 
was  drawn  out  and  at  once  thrown  upward 
again,  if  no  capture  had  been  made.  In  case 
he  had  taken  fish,  he  came  to  the  inshore  edge 
of  his  platform,  and  upset  the  net's  contents  into 
a  pool  separated  from  the  main  rapid  by  an 
improvised  wall  of  stones. 

"  I  'm  too  old  for  scoop  some  now,"  said 
Ma'ame  Paradis,  with  a  sigh. 

"You  were  never  strong  enough  to  scoop, 
surely,"  said  I. 

**  No,  eh  ?  All  right,  M'sieu.  Then  you 
hain't  nev'  hear  'bout  the  time  Old  Man  Savarin 
was  catched  up  with.  No,  eh  ?  Well,  I  '11 
tol'  you  'bout  that."     And  this  was  her  story 

as  she  told  it  to  me.  , , 

•         ••••••• 

"  Der  was  fun  dose  time.  Nobody  ain't  nev* 
catch  up  with  dat  old  rascal  ony  other  time 
since  I  '11  know  him  first.  Me,  I  '11  be  only  fif- 
teen den.      Dat 's  long  time  'go,  eh  ?     Well, 


w 


10 


OLD  MAJSr  SA^ARtN. 


for  sure,  I  ain't  so  old  like  what  I'll  look. 
But  Old  Man  Savarin  was  old  already.  He  *s 
old,  old,  old,  when  he  's  only  thirty  ;  an'  mean 
— bapthne  /  If  de  old  Nick  ain'  got  de  hottest 
place  for  dat  old  stingy  —  yes,  for  sure  ! 

"You'll  see  up  dere  where  Frawce  Seguin 
is  scoop?  Dat's  the  Laroque  platform  by 
right.  Me,  I  was  a  Laroque.  My  fader  was 
use  for  scoop  dere,  an'  my  gran'fader  —  the 
Laroques  scoop  dere  all  de  time  since  ever 
dere  was  some  Rapid  Rataplan.  Den  Old  Man 
Savarin  he 's  buyed  the  land  up  dere  from  Felix 
Ladoucier,  an*  he  's  told  my  fader,  *  You  can't 
scoop  no  more  wisout  you  pay  me  rent.'      , , 

"  *  Rent ! '  my  fader  say.  '  Saprie  t  Dat 's 
my  fader's  platform  for  scoop  fish !  You  ask 
anybody.' 

"*Oh,  I'll  know  all  'bout  dat,'  Old  Man 
Savarin  is  say.  *  Ladoucier  let  you  scoop  front 
of  his  land,  for  Ladoucier  one  big  fool.  De 
lan*s  mine  now,  an'  de  fishin'  right  is  mine. 
You  can't  scoop  dere  wisout  you  pay  me  rent.' 


\v 


OLD  MAN  SA  VARIN. 


II 


"  <  Bap^me  !  I  '11  show  you  'bout  dat,'  my 
fader  say. 

"  Next  mawny  he  is  go  for  scoop  same  like 
always.  Den  Old  Man  Savarin  is  fetch  my 
fader  up  before  de  magistrate.  De  magistrate 
make  my  fader  pay  nine  shillin'  ! 

"  *  Mebbe  dat 's  learn  you  one  lesson,'  Old 
Man  Savarin  is  say. 

"  My  fader  swear  pretty  good,  but  my  moder 
say :  *  Well,  Narcisse,  dere  hain*  no  use  for  take 
it  out  in  malediction.  De  nine  shillin'  is  paid. 
You  scoop  more  fish  —  dat 's  the  way.' 

"  So  my  fader  he  is  go  out  early,  early  nex* 
mawny.  He 's  scoop,  he 's  scoop.  He 's  catch 
plenty  fish  before  Old  Man  Savarin  come. 

"  *  You  ain't  got  'nuff  yet  for  fishin'  on  my 
land,  eh  ?  Come  out  of  dat,'  Old  Man  Savarin 
is  say. 

"  *  Saprie  !  Ain'  I  pay  nine  shillin'  for  fish 
here  ? '  my  fader  say. 

"*  Oui — you  pay  nine  shillin'  for  fish  here 
ivisout  my  leave.     But  you  ain't  pay  nothin'  for 


12 


OLD  MAN  SA  VARIN. 


fish  here  wis  my  leave.    You  is  goin'  up  before 
de  magistrate  some  more.' 

"So  he  is  fetch  my  fader  up  anoder  time. 
An'  de  magistrate  make  my  fader  pay  twelve 
shillin'  more  ! 

"  *  Well,  I  s'pose  I  can  go  fish  on  my  fader's 
platform  now,'  my  fader  is  say. 

"  Old  Man  Savarin  was  laugh.  *  Your  honor, 
dis  man  tink  he  don't  have  for  pay  me  no  rent, 
because  you  '11  make  him  pay  two  fines  for  tres- 
pass on  my  land.' 

"  So  de  magistrate  told  my  fader  he  hain't 
got  no  more  right  for  go  on  his  own  platform 
than  he  was  at  the  start.  My  fader  is  ver' 
angry.  He 's  cry,  he 's  tear  his  shirt ;  but 
Old  Man  Savarin  only  say,  *I  guess  I  learn 
you  one  good  lesson,  Narcisse.'  '. 

"  De  whole  village  ain't  told  de  old  rascal 
how  much  dey  was  angry  'bout  dat,  for  Old  Man 
Savarin  is  got  dem  all  in  debt  at  his  big  store. 
He  is  grin,  grin,  and  told  everybody  how  he 
learn  my  fader  two  good  lesson.    An'  he  is  told 


^; 


■>. 


;-.  ^  J 


OLD  MAN  SAVARm. 


13 


my  fader :  *  You  see  what  I  *11  be  goin'  for  do 
wis  you  if  ever  you  go  on  my  land  again  wisout 
you  pay  me  rent.' 

** '  How  much  you  want  ?  *  my  fader  say. 

«  *  Half  de  fish  you  catch.' 

***Monjee/    Never!'    < 

"  *  Five  dollar  a  year,  den.' 

"  '  SapriCf  no.     Dat  's  too  much.' 

" '  All  right.  Keep  ofT  my  Ian',  if  you  hain't 
want  anoder  lesson.'  t 

"  *  You 's  a  tief,'  my  fader  say. 

"  *  Hermidas,  make  up  Narcisse  Laroque  bill,' 
de  old  rascal  say  to  his  clerk.  *  If  he  hain't 
pay  dat  bill  to-morrow,  I  sue  him.' 

*'  So  my  fader  is  scare  mos'  to  death.  Only 
my  moder  she  *s  say,  *  /'//  pay  dat  bill,  me.' 

"  So  she 's  take  the  money  she 's  saved  up  long 
time  for  make  my  weddin'  when  it  come.  An' 
she  's  paid  de  bill.  So  den  my  fader  hain't 
scare  no  more,  an'  he  is  shake  his  fist  good 
under  Old  ^fan  Savarin's  ugly  nose.  But  dat 
old  rascal  only  laugh  an'  say,  *  Narcisse,  you 
like  to  be  fined  some  more,  eh?' 


14 


OLD  MAN  SAVARIN. 


"  *  Tort  Dieu.  You  rob  me  of  my  place  for 
fish,  but  I  '11  take  my  platform  anyhow,'  my 
fader  is  say.  .. 

"  'Yes,  eh?  All  right — if  you  can  get  him 
wisout  go  on  my  land.  But  you  go  on  my 
land,  and  see  if  I  don't  learn  you  anoder 
lesson,*  Old  Savarin  is  say. 

"So  my  fader  is  rob  of  his  platform,  too. 
Nex*  ting  we  hear,  Frawce  Seguin  has  rent  dat 
platform  for  five  dollar  a  year.  ^ 

"  Den  de  big  fun  begin.  My  fader  an  Frawce 
is  cousin.  All  de  time  before  den  dey  was  good 
friend.  But  my  fader  he  is  go  to  Frawce 
Seguin's  place  an'  he  is  told  him,  *  Frawce, 
I  '11  goin'  lick  you  so  hard  you  can't  nev'  scoop 
on  my  platform.* 

"  Frawce  only  laugh.  Den  Old  Man  Savarin 
come  up  de  hill. 

"'Fetch  him  up  to  de  magistrate  an'  learn 
him  anoder  lesson,'  he  is  say  to  Frawce. 

"'What  for?' Frawce  say.     . 

"*For  try  to  scare  you.* 


■V,: 


OLD  MAN  SAVARIH, 


15 


«*  *  He  hain't  hurt  me  none.' 

"  *  But  he 's  say  he  will  lick  you.' 

"*Dat's  only  because    he's   vex,*   Frawce 


say. 


I'll 


"*Baptimef  Non/*  my  fader  say. 
be  goin'  for  lick  you  good,  Frawce.' 

"  *  For  sure  ? '  Frawce  say. 

"  *  Saprie  !    Yes ;  for  sure.' 

" '  Well,  dat  's  all  right  den,  Narcisse.  When 
you  goin*  for  lick  me  ? ' 

'"First  time  I'll  get  drunk.  I'll  be  goin' 
for  get  drunk  dis  same  day.' 

"  *  All  right,  Narcisse.  If  you  goin'  get  drunk 
for  lick  me,  I  '11  be  goin'  get  drunk  for  lick 
you '  —  Canadien  hain't  nev'  fool  'nuff  for  fight, 
M'sieu,  only  if  dey  is  got  drunk. 

"  Well,  my  fader  he  's  go  on  old  Marceau's 
hotel,  an'  he  's  drink  all  day.  Frawce  Seguin 
he 's  go  cross  de  road  on  Joe  Maufraud's  hotel, 
an*  he  *j  drink  all  day.  When  de  night  come, 
dey  *s  bose  stand  out  in  front  of  de  two  hotel  for 
fight. 


i6 


OLD  MAN  SA  VARIN. 


"  Dey  's  bose  yell  an'  yell  for  make  de  oder 
feller  scare  bad  before  dey  begin.  Hermidas 
Laronde  an*  Jawnny  Leroi  dey  *s  hold  my  fader 
for  fear  he  's  go  'cross  de  road  for  keel  Frawce 
Seguin  dead.  Pierre  Seguin  an'  Magloire  Sauve 
is  hold  Frawce  for  fear  he  's  come  'cross  de 
road  for  keel  my  fader  dead.  And  dose  men 
fight  dat  way  'cross  de  road,  till  dey  hain't 
hardly  able  for  stand  up  no  more. 

"  My  fader  he 's  tear  his  shirt  and  he  's  yell, 
*  Let  me  at  him  ! '  Frawce  he 's  tear  his  shirt 
and  he 's  yell,  *  Let  me  at  him  ! '  But  de  men 
hain't  goin'  for  let  dem  loose,  for  fear  one  is  strike 
de  oder  ver'  hard.  De  whole  village  is  shiver 
'bout  dat  offle  fight  —  yes,  seh,  shiver  bad  ! 

"  Well,  dey 's  fight  like  dat  for  more  as  four 
hours,  till  dey  hain't  able  for  yell  no  more,  an* 
dey  hain't  got  no  money  left  for  buy  wheeskey 
for  de  crowd.  Den  Marceau  and  Joe  Maufraud 
tol'  dem  bose  it  was  a  shame  for  two  cousins  to 
fight  so  bad.  An'  my  fader  he 's  say  he 's  ver' 
sorry  dat   he  lick  Frawce  so  hard,  and  dey's 


OLD  MAN  SAVARIN, 


17 


bose  sorry.     So  dey  's  kiss  one  anoder  good  — 
only  all  their  close  is  tore  to  pieces. 

"An'  what  you  tink  'bout  Old  Man  Savarin? 
Old  Man  Savarin  is  just  stand  in  front  of  his 
store  all  de  time,  an'  he 's  say  :  *  I  '11  tink  I  '11 
fetch  him  bose  hup  to  de  magistrate,  an'  I  '11 
learn  him  ^^j-^  a  lesson.' 

"  Me,  I  '11  be  only  fifteen,  but  I  hain't  scare 
'bout  dat  fight  same  like  my  moder  is  scare. 
No  more  is  Alphonsine  Seguin  scare.  She 's 
seventeen,  an'  she  wait  for  de  fight  to  be  all 
over.  Den  she  take  her  fader  home,  same  like 
I  '11  take  my  fader  home  for  bed.  Dat 's  after 
twelve  o'clock  of  night. 

"  Nex'  mawny  early  my  fader  he 's  groaned 
and  he 's  groaned  :  *Ah — ugh — I'm  sick,  sick, 
me.     I  '11  be  goin'  for  die  dis  time,  for  sure.' 

"*You  get  up  an'  scoop  some  fish,'  my 
moder  she 's  say,  angry.  *  Den  you  hain't  be 
sick  no   more.' 

" '  Ach  —  ugh  —  I  '11  hain't  be  able.  Oh,  I  '11 
be  so  sick.    An'  I  hain'  got  no  place  for  scoop 

2 


i8 


OLD  MAN  SAVARIN. 


fish  now  no  more.  Frawce  Seguin  has  rob  my 
platform.' 

"  *  Take  de  nex'  one  lower  down/  my  moder 
she 's  say. 

"  *  Dat  's  Jawnny  Leroi's.' 

"  *  All  right  for  dat.  Jawnny  he  's  hire  for 
run  timber  to-day.' 

"  *  Ugh — I  '11  not  be  able  for  get  up.  Send  for 
M'sieu  la  Cur6  —  I  '11  be  goin'  for  die  for  sure.' 

"  *  Mis  re,  but  dat 's  no  man  /  Dat 's  a  drunk 
pig,'  my  moder  she 's  say,  angry.  *  Sick, 
eh  ?  Lazy,  lazy  —  dat 's  so.  An'  dere  hain't 
no  fish  for  de  little  chilluns,  an'  it 's  Friday 
mawny.'     So  my  moder  she  's  begin  for  cry. 

"  Well,  M'sieu,  I  '11  make  de  rest  short ;  for 
de  sun  is  all  gone  now.  What  you  tink  I  do 
dat  mawny  ?  I  take  de  big  scoop-net  an'  I  '11 
come  up  here  for  see  if  I  '11  be  able  for  scoop 
some  fish  on  Jawnny  Leroi's  platform.  Only 
dere   hain't  nev'  much  fish  dere. 

"  Pretty  quick  I  '11  look  up  and  I  '11  see 
Alphonsine  Seguin  scoop,  scoop  on  my  fader's 


OLD  MAN  SAVARtU, 


19 


old  platform.  Alphonsine's  fader  is  sick,  sick, 
same  like  my  fader,  an'  all  de  Seguin  boys  is 
too  little  for  scoop,  same  like  my  brudders  is 
too  little.  So  dere  Alphonsine  she's  scoop, 
scoop  for  breakfas'. 

"  What  you  tink  I  '11  see  some  more  ?  I  '11 
see  Old  Man  Savarin.  He  's  watchin'  from  de 
corner  of  de  cedar  bush,  an'  I  '11  know  ver* 
good  what  he 's  watch  for.  He 's  watch  for 
catch  my  fader  go  on  his  own  platform.  He 's 
want  for  learn  my  fader  anoder  lesson.  Saprie  t 
dat  's  make   me  ver'  angry,  M'sieu  ! 

"  Alphonsine  she  's  scoop,  scoop  plenty  fish. 
I  '11  not  be  scoop  none.  Dat 's  make  me  more 
angry.  I  '11  look  up  where  Alphonsine  is,  an' 
I'll  talk  to  myself:  — 

"  *  Dat 's  my  fader's  platform,'  I  '11  be  say. 
*  Dat 's  my  fader's  fish  what  you  catch,  Alphon- 
sine. You  hain't  nev'  be  my  cousin  no  more. 
It  is  mean,  mean  for  Frawce  Seguin  to  rent 
my  fader's  platform  for  please  dat  old  rascal 
Savarin.'     Mebby   I'll    not    be   so    angry   at 


20 


OLD  MAN  SAVARm. 


Alphonsine,  M'sieu,  if  I  was  able  for  catch  some 
fish ;  but  I  hain't  able  —  I  don't  catch  none. 

"  Well,  M'sieu,  dat  's  de  way  for  long  time  — 
half-hour  mebby.  Den  I  '11  hear  Alphonsine 
yell  good.  I'll  look  up  de  river  some  more. 
She 's  try  for  lift  her  net.  She  's  try  hard,  hard, 
but  she  hain't  able.  De  net  is  down  in  de 
rapid,  an'  she  's  only  able  for  hang  on  to  de 
hannle.  Den  I  '11  know  she 's  got  one  big 
sturgeon,  an'  he 's  so  big  she  can't  pull  him  up. 

"  Monjee  !  what  I  care  'bout  dat  I  I  '11  laugh 
me.  Den  I  '11  laugh  good  some  more,  for  I  '11 
want  Alphonsine  for  see  how  I  '11  laugh  big. 
And  I'll  talk  to  myself:  — 

"  *  Dat 's  good  for  dose  Seguins,'  I  '11  say. 
*  De  big  sturgeon  will  pull  away  de  net.  Den 
Alphonsine  she  will  lose  her  fader's  scoop  wis 
de  sturgeon.  Dat 's  good  'nuff  for  dose  Seguins  ! 
Take   my  fader  platform,  eh  ? ' 

"  For  sure,  I  '11  want  for  go  an'  help  Alphon- 
sine all  de  same  —  she  *s  my  cousin,  an*  I  '11 
want  for  see  de  sturgeon,  me.     But  I  '11  only 


OLD  MAN  SAVARiy. 


2T 


just  laugh,  laugh.  Nottf  M^sieu  ;  dere  was  not 
one  man  out  on  any  of  de  oder  platform  dat 
mawny  for  to  help  Alphonsine.  Dey  was  all 
sleep  ver'  late,  for  dey  was  all  out  ver'  late  for 
see  de  ofHe  fight  I  told  you  'bout. 

"  Well,  pretty  quick,  what  you  tink  ?  I  Ml  see 
Old  Man  Savarin  goin'  to  my  fader's  platform. 
He  's  take  hold  for  help  Alphonsine  an'  dey  's 
bose  pull,  and  pretty  quick  de  big  sturgeon  is 
up  on  de  platform.  I  'U  be  more  angry  as 
before. 

"  Oh,  tort  Dieu  t  What  you  tink  come  den  ? 
Why,  dat  Old  Man  Savarin  is  want  for  take  de 
sturgeon  I 

"  First  dey  hain't  speak  so  T  can  hear,  for 
de  Rapid  is  too  loud.  But  pretty  quick  dey 's 
bose  angry,  and  I  hear  dem  talk. 

"  *  Dat 's  my  fish,'  Old  Man  Savarin  is  say. 
'  Did  n't  I  save  him  ?  Was  n't  you  goin'  for 
lose  him,  for  sure?' 

"Me  —  I  '11  laugh  good.  Dass  such  an  old 
rascal. 


99 


OLD  MAtf  SAVARIK. 


"'You  get  off  dis  platform,  quick  1 '  Alphon- 
sine  she  's  say. 

"  *  Give  me  my  sturgeon,'  he  *s  say. 

"*Dat's  a  lie  —  it  hain't  your  sturgeon. 
It 's  my  sturgeon,'  she  's  yell. 

"  *  I  '11  learn  you  one  lesson  'bout  dat,'  he 's 
say. 

**  Well,  M'sieu,  Alphonsine  she  's  pull  back  de 
fish  just  when  Old  Man  Savarin  is  make  one 
grab.  An'  when  she  's  pull  back,  she  's  step  to 
one  side,  an'  de  old  rascal  he  is  grab  at  de  fish, 
an'  de  heft  of  de  sturgeon  is  make  him  fall  on 
his  face,  so  he  *s  tumble  in  de  Rapid  when 
Alphonsine  let  go  de  sturgeon.  So  dere  's  Old 
Man  Savarin  floating  in  de  river  —  and  me  / 
I  '11    don'   care   eef  he 's  drown  one   bit ! 

One  time  he  is  on  his  back,  one  time  he  is 
on  his  face,  one  time  he  is  all  under  de  water. 
For  sure  he  's  goin'  for  be  draw  into  de  culbute 
an'  get  drown'  dead,  if  I  '11  not  be  able  for 
scoop  him  when  he  's  go  by  my  platform. 
I  '11  want   for   laugh,   but  I  '11   be   too    much 


scare. 


\. 


OLD  MAN  SAVARIN. 


n 


"  Well,  M'sieu,  I  Ml  pif^k  up  my  fader's  scoop 
and  I  '11  stand  out  on  de  edge  of  de  platform, 
De  water  is  run  so  fast,  I  'm  mos'  'fraid  de  old 
man  is  boun'  for  pull  me  in  when  I  '11  scoop 
him.  But  I  '11  not  mind  for  dat,  I  '11  throw  de 
scoop  an'  catch  him ;  an'  for  sure,  he  's  hold 
on  good. 

"  So  dere  's  de  old  rascal  in  de  scoop,  but 
when  I  '11  get  him  safe,  I  hain't  able  for  pull 
him  in  one  bit.  I  '11  only  be  able  for  hold 
on  an*  laugh,  laugh  —  he 's  look  ver'  queer  1 
All  I  can  do  is  to  hold  him  dere  so  he  can't 
go  down  de  culbute.  I'll  can't  pull  him  up  if 
I  '11  want  to. 

"  De  old  man  is  scare  ver'  bad.  But  pretty 
quick  he  's  got  hold  of  de  cross-bar  of  de  hoop, 
an'  he  's  got  his  ugly  old  head  up  good. 

"  *  Pull  me  in,'  he  say,  ver'  angry. " ' 

"  *  I  '11  hain't  be  able,'  I  '11  say. 

"Jus'  den  Alphonsine  she  come  'long,  an* 
she  's  laugh  so  she  can't  hardly  hold  on  wis  me 
to  de  hannle.     I  was  laugh   good  some  more. 


:.    't 


24 


OLD  MAN  SAVARIN. 


When  de  old  villain  see  us  have  fun,  he 's  yell : 
*  I  '11  learn  you  bose  one  lesson  for  this.  Pull 
me  ashore ! '  .        v> 

"  '  Oh  !  you  *s  learn  us  bose  one  lesson, 
M'sieu  Savarin,  eh  ? "  Alphonsine  she 's  say. 
'  Well,  den,  us  bose  will  learn  M'sieu  Savarin 
one  lesson  first.  Pull  him  up  a  little,'  she's 
say  to  me. 

"  So  we  pull  him  up,  an'  den  Alphonsine  she 's 
say  to  me :  '  Let  out  de  hannle,  quick '  — 
and  he  's  under  de  water  some  more.  When  we 
stop  de  net,  he  's  got  hees  head  up  pretty  quick. 

"  *  Monjee  /  I  '11  be  drown'  if  you  don't  pull 
me  out,'  he  's  mos'  cry. 

"  *  Ver'  well  —  if  you  's  drown,  your  family 
be  ver'  glad,'  Alphonsine  she 's  say.  '  Den 
they's  got  all  your  money  for  spend  quick, 
quick.' 

"M'sieu,  dat  scare  him  offle.  He  's  begin 
for  cry  like  one  baby. 

"  ^  Save  me  out,'  he  's  say.  *  I  '11  give  you 
anything   I've  got.* 


OLD  MAN  SAVARtN: 


25 


"  *  How  much  ? '  Alphonsine  she  's  say. 

"  He  's  tink,  and  he  's  say,  *  Quarter  dollar.' 

"  Alphonsine  an'  me  is  laugh,  laugh. 

"  *  Save  me,'  he  's  cry  some  more.  *  I  hain't 
fit  for  die  dis  mawny.' 

" '  You  hain'  fit  for  live  no  mawny,'  Alphonsine 
she  's  say.  *  One  quarter  dollar,  eh  ?  Where  's 
my  sturgeon  ? ' 

" '  He  's  got  away  when  I  fall  in,'  he 's  say. 

"  *  How  much  you  goin'  give  me  for  lose  my 
big  sturgeon?'  she's  ask. 

"  *  How  much  you  '11  want,  Alphonsine  ?  ' 

"  *  Two  dollare.' 

"  *  Dat  's  too  much  for  one  sturgeon,'  he  's 
say.  For  all  he  was  not  feel  fit  for  die,  he 
was  more  'fraid  for  pay  out  his  money. 

"  *  Let  him  down  some  more,'  Alphonsine 
she  's  say. 

" '  Oh,  mtsere,  misere  /  I  '11  pay  de  two 
dollare,'  he 's  say  when  his  head  come  up  some 
more. 

"  *  Ver'  well,  den,'  Alphonsine  she's  say  ;  'I  *11 


26 


OLD  MAN  SAVARW. 


I 


be  willin'  for  save  you,  me.  But  you  hain't 
scooped  by  me.  You 's  in  Marie's  net.  I  *11 
only  come  for  help  Marie.  You  *s  her  stur- 
geon ; '  an'  Alphonsine  she  's  laugh  an'  laugh. 

" '  I  did  n't  lose  no  sturgeon  for  Marie,'  he  's 
•  say. 

*^ '  No,  eh  ? '  I  '11  say  mysef.  *  But  you  's 
steal  my  fader's  platform.  You  's  take  his 
fishin'  place.  You 's  got  him  fined  two  times. 
You  's  make  my  moder  pay  his  bill  wis  my 
weddin'  money.  What  you  goin'  pay  for  all 
dat?  You  tink  I  '11  be  goin'  for  mos'  kill  my- 
sef pullin'  you  out  for  noting?  When  you  ever 
do  someting  for  anybody  for  noting,  eh,  M'sieu 
Savarin  ? ' 

" '  How  much  you  want  ? '  he  's  say. 

"  *  Ten  dollare  for  de  platform,  dat 's  all.' 

"  *  Never — dat 's  robbery,'  he  's  say,  an'  he  's 
begin  to  cry  like  z'^r'  li  '11  baby. 

"  '  Pull  him  hup,  Marie,  an'  give  him  some 
more,'  Alphonsine  she  's  say. 

**  But  de  old  rascal  is  so  scare  'bout  dat,  dat 


OLD  MAN  SA  VARIN. 


27 


he  's  say  he  's  pay  right  off.  So  we  's  pull  him 
up  near  to  de  platform,  only  we  hain't  big 
'nuff  fool  for  let  him  out  of  de  net  till  he  's  take 
out  his  purse  an*  pay  de  twelve  dollare. 

"  Monjee^  M'sieu  !  If  ever  you  see  one  angry 
old  rascal !  He  not  even  stop  for  say :  *  T'ank 
you  for  save  me  from  be  drown'  dead  in  the 
culbiite  / '  He  's  run  for  his  house  an'  he  's  put 
on  dry  clo'es,  an'  he  's  go  up  to  de  magistrate 
first  ting  for  learn  me  an'  Alphonsine  one  big 
lesson. 

"  But  de  magistrate  hain'  ver'  bad  magistrate. 
He  's  only  laugh  an'  he  's  say :  — 

"  *  M'sieu  Savarin,  de  whole  river  will  be  laugh 
at  you  for  let  two  young  girl  take  eet  out  of 
smart  man  like  you  like  dat.  Hain't  you  tink 
your  life  worth  twelve  dollare?  Didn't  day 
save  you  from  de  cidbutc  ?  Monjee  /  I  'U  tink 
de  whole  river  not  laugh  so  ver'  bad  if  you  pay 
dose  young  girl  one  hunder  dollare  for  save 
you  so  kind,' 

"  '  One    hunder    dollare  ! '    he  's  mos'    cry. 


2S 


OLD  MAN  SAVARIM. 


*  Hain't  you  goin'  to  learn  dose  girl  one  lesson 
for  lake  advantage  of  me  dat  way  ?  ' 

"  *  Did  n't  you  pay  dose  girl  yoursef  ?  Did  n't 
you  took  out  your  purse  yoursef?  Yes,  eh? 
Well,  den,  I  '11  goin'  for  learn  you  one  lesson 
yoursef,  M'sieu  Savarin/  de  magistrate  is  say. 
*Dose  two  young  girl  is  ver' wicked,  eh?  Yes, 
dat 's  so.  But  for  why?  Hain't  dey  just  do  to 
you  what  you  been  doin'  ever  since  you  was  in 
beesness?  Don'  I  know?  You  hain*  never 
yet  got  advantage  of  nobody  wisout  you  rob 
him  all  you  can,  an'  dose  wicked  young  girl 
only  act  just  like  you  give  dem  a  lesson  all  your 
life.' 

"An'  de  best  fun  waL  de  whole  river  did 
laugh  at  M'sieu  Savarin.  An'  my  fader  and 
Frawce  Seguin  is  laugh  most  of  all,  till  he  's 
catch  hup  wis  bose  of  dem  anoder  time.  You 
come  for  see  me  some  more,  an'  I  '11  tol'  you 
'bout  dat." 


THE   PRIVILEGE  OF  THE   LIMITS. 


«  \7'ES,  indeed,  my  grandfather  wass  once  in 
jail,"  said  old  Mrs.  McTavish,  of  the 
county  of  Glengarry,  in  Ontario,  Canada ;  "  but 
that  wass  for  debt,  and  he  wass  a  ferry  honest 
man  whateffer,  and  he  would  not  broke  his 
promise  —  no,  not  for  all  the  money  in  Canada. 
If  you  will  listen  to  me,  I  will  tell  chust  exactly 
the  true  story  about  that  debt,  to  show  you  what 
an  honest  man  my  grandfather  wass. 

"  One  time  Tougal  Stewart,  him  that  wass  the 
poy's  grandfather  that  keeps  the  same  store  in 
Cornwall  to  this  day,  sold  a  plough  to  my  grand- 
father, and  my  grandfather  said  he  would  pay 
half  the  plough  in  October,  and  the  other  half 
whateffer  time  he  felt  able  to  pay  the  money. 
Yes,  indeed,  that  was  the  very  promise  my 
grandfather  gave. 


/ 


30 


THE  PRIVILEGE  OF  THE  LIMITS. 


*'  So  he  was  at  Tougal  Stewart's  store  on  the 
first  of  October  early  in  the  morning  pefore  the 
shutters  wass  taken  off,  and  he  paid  half  chust 
exactly  to  keep  his  word.  Then  the  crop  wass 
ferry  pad  next  year,  and  the  year  after  that  one 
of  his  horses  wass  killed  py  lightning,  and  the 
next  year  his  brother,  that  wass  not  rich  and 
had  a  big  family,  died,  and  do  you  think  wass 
my  grandfather  to  let  the  family  be  disgraced 
without  a  good  funeral?  No,  indeed.  So  my 
grandfather  paid  for  the  funeral,  and  there  was 
at  it  plenty  of  me  it  and  drink  for  eferypody, 
as  wass  the  right  Hielan'  custom  those  days; 
and  after  the  funeral  my  grandfather  did  iiot 
feel  chust  exactly  able  to  pay  the  other  half  for 
the  plough  that  year  either. 

"So,  then,  Tougal  Stewart  met  my  grand- 
father in  Cornwall  next  day  after  the  funeral, 
and  asked  him  if  he  had  some  money  to 
spare.  :  .         .    . 

"  *  Wass  you  in  need  of  help,  Mr.  Stewart  ? ' 
says  my  grandfather,  kindly.     *  For  if  it 's  in  any 


\ 


t    . 


THE  PRIVILEGE  OF  THE  LIMITS. 


3» 


want  you  are,  Tougal/  says  my  grandfather,  *  I 
will  sell  the  coat  off  my  back,  if  there  is  no 
other  way  to  lend  you  a  1  an ;'  for  that  was 
always  the  way  of  my  grandfather  with  all  his 
friends,  and  a  bigger-hearted  man  there  never 
wass  in  all  Glengarry,  or  in  Stormont,  or  in 
Dundas,  moreofer. 

" '  In  want  1  *  says  Tougal  —  *  in  want,  Mr. 
McTavish  ! '  says  he,  very  high.  '  Would  you 
wish  to  insult  a  gentleman,  and  him  of  the  name 
of  Stewart,  that 's  the  name  of  princes  of  the 
world?'  he  said,  so  he  did. 

"Seeing  Tougal  had  his  temper  up,  my 
grandfather  spoke  softly,  being  a  quiet,  peace- 
able man,  and  in  wonder  what  he  had  said  to 
offend  Tougal. 

"  *  Mr.  Stewart,'  says  my  grandfather, '  it  wass 
not  in  my  mind  to  anger  you  whatefer.  Only 
I  thought,  from  your  asking  me  if  I  had  some 
money,  that  you  might  be  looking  for  a  wee  bit 
of  a  loan,  as  many  a  gentleman  has  to  do  at 
times,  and  no  shame  to  him  at  all,'  said  my 
grandfather. 


32 


THE  PRIVILEGE   OF  THE  LIMITS. 


tt 


'  A  loan  ? '  says  Tougal,  sneering.  *  A  loan, 
is  it  ?  Where 's  your  memory,  Mr.  McTavish  ? 
Are  you  not  owing  me  half  the  price  of  the 
plough  you've  had  these  three  years?' 

" '  And  wass  you  asking  me  for  money  for 
the  other  half  of  the  plough  ? '  says  my  grand- 
father, very  astonished. 

"  *  Just  that,'  says  Tougal. 

"  *  Have  you  no  shame  or  honor  in  you  ? ' 
says  my  grandfather,  firing  up.  *  How  could  I 
feel  able  to  pay  that  now,  and  me  chust  yester- 
day been  giving  my  poor  brother  a  funeral  fit 
for  the  McTavishes'  own  grand-nephew,  that 
wass  as  good  chentleman's  plood  as  any  Stewart 
in  Glengarry.  You  saw  the  expense  I  wass  at, 
for  there  you  wass,  and  I  thank  you  for  the 
politeness  of  coming,  Mr.  Stewart,'  says  my 
grandfather,  ending  mild,  for  the  anger  would 
never  stay  in  him  more  than  a  minute,  so  kind 
was  the  nature  he  had. 

"  *  It  you  can  spend  money  on  a  funeral  like 
that,   you   can  pay   me   for   my  plough,'   says 


THE  PRIVILEGE  OF  THE  LIMITS. 


33 


Stewart;  for  with  buying  and  selling  he  wass 
become  a  poor  creature,  and  the  heart  of  a 
Hielan'man  wass  half  gone  out  of  him,  for  all 
he  wass  so  proud  of  his  name  of  monarchs  and 
kings. 

"  My  grandfather  had  a  mind  to  strike  him 
down  on  the  spot,  so  he  often  said ;  but  he 
thought  of  the  time  when  he  hit  Hamish  Coch- 
rane in  anger,  and  he  minded  the  penances  the 
priest  put  on  him  for  breaking  the  silly  man's 
jaw  with  that  blow,  so  he  smothered  ^ne  heat 
that  wass  in  him,  and  turned  away  in  scorn. 
With  that  Tougal  Stewart  went  to  court,  and 
sued  my  grandfather,  puir  mean  creature. 

"You  might  think  that  Judge  Jones  —  him 
that  wass  judge  in  Cornwall  before  Judge  Jarvis 
ixiat  's  dead  —  would  do  justice.  But  no,  he 
made  it  the  law  that  my  grandfather  must  pay 
at  once,  though  Tougal  Stewart  could  not  deny 
what  the  bargain  wass. 

"'Your  Honor,'  says  my  grandfather,  *I 
said  I  'd  pay  when  I  felt  able.     And  do  I  feel 


:s 


34 


THE  PRIVILEGE  OF  THE  LIMITS. 


able  now?  No,  I  do  not,*  says  he.  *It's  a 
disgrace  to  Tougal  Stewart  to  ask  me,  and  him- 
self telling  you  what  the  bargain  was,'  said  my 
grandfather.  But  Judge  Jones  said  that  he 
must  pay,  for  all  that  he  did  not  feel  able. 

**  *  I  will  nefer  pay  one  copper  till  I  feel 
able,'  says  my  grandfather ;  *  but  1  '11  keep  my 
Hielan'  promise  to  my  dying  day,  as  I  always 
done,'  says  he. 

"  And  with  that  the  old  judge  laughed,  and 
said  he  would  have  to  give  judgment.  And  so 
he  did ;  and  after  that  Tougal  Stewart  got  out 
an  execution.  But  not  the  worth  of  a  handful 
of  oatmeal  could  the  bailiff  lay  hands  on,  be- 
cause my  grandfather  had  chust  exactly  taken 
the  precaution  to  give  a  bill  of  sale  on  his  gear 
to  his  neighbor,  Alexander  Frazer,  that  could 
be  trusted  to  do  what  was  right  after  the  law 
play  was  over. 

"The  whole  settlement  had  great  contempt 
for  Tougal  Stewart's  conduct;  but  he  was  a 
headstrong   body,  and  once   he   begun  to  do 


\ 


'il 


THE  PRIVILEGE  OP  THE  LIMITS. 


35 


wrong  agiiinHt  my  grandfather,  he  held  on,  for 
all  that  his  trade  fell  away  \  and  finally  he  had 
my  grandfather  arrested  for  debt,  though  you  '11 
understand,  sir,  that  he  was  owing  Stewart 
nothing  that  he  ought  to  pay  when  he  did  n't 
feel  able. 

<'  In  those  times  prisoners  for  debt  was  taken 
to  jail  in  Cornwall,  and  if  they  had  friends  to 
give  bail  that  they  would  not  go  beyond  the 
posts  that  was  around  the  sixteen  acres  nearest 
the  jail  walls,  the  prisoners  could  go  where  they 
liked  on  that  ground.  This  was  called  *the 
privilege  of  the  limits.'  The  limits,  you  '11 
understand,  wass  marked  by  cedar  posts  painted 
white  about  the  size  of  hitching-posts. 

**  The  whole  settlement  was  ready  to  go  bail 
for  my  grandfather  if  he  wanted  it,  and  for  the 
health  of  him  he  needed  to  be  in  the  open  air, 
and  so  he  gave  Tuncan  Macdoiinell  of  the 
Greenfields,  and  i45neas  Macdonald  of  the 
Sandfields,  for  his  bail,  and  he  promised,  on  his 
Hiclan'  word  of  honor,  not  to  go  beyond  the 


1 1  nil  I  i| 


i 


I     ' 


36 


THE  PRIVILEGE  OF  THE  LIMITS. 


posts.  With  that  he  went  where  he  pleased, 
only  taking  care  that  he  never  put  even  the  toe 
of  his  foot  beyond  a  post,  for  all  that  some 
prisoners  of  the  limits  would  chump  ofer  them 
and  back  again,  or  maybe  swing  round  them, 
holding  by  their  hands. 

"  Efery  day  the  neighbors  would  go  into 
Cornwall  to  give  my  grandfather  the  good  word, 
and  they  would  offer  to  pay  Tougal  Stewart  for 
the  other  half  of  the  plough,  only  that  vexed  my 
grandfather,  for  he  was  too  proud  to  borrow, 
and,  of  course,  every  day  he  felt  less  and  less 
able  to  pay  on  account  of  him  having  to  hire 
a  man  to  be  doing  the  spring  ploughing  and 
seeding  and  making  the  kale-yard. 

"  All  this  time,  you  '11  mind,  Tougal  Stewart 
had  to  pay  five  shillings  a  week  for  my  grand- 
father's keep,  the  law  being  so  that  if  the  debtor 
swore  he  had  not  five  pound's  worth  of  property 
to  his  name,  then  the  creditor  had  to  pay  the 
five  shillings,  and,  of  course,  my  grandfather  had 
nothing  to  his  name  after  he  gave  the  bill  of  sale 


THE  PRIVILEGE  OF  THE  LIMITS. 


37 


to  Alexander  Frazer.  A  great  diversion  it  was 
to  my  grandfather  to  be  reckoning  up  that  if  he 
lived  as  long  as  his  father,  that  was  hale  and 
strong  at  ninety-six,  Tougal  would  need  to  pay 
five  or  six  hundred  pounds  for  him,  and  there 
was  only  two  pound  five  shillings  to  be  paid 
on  the  plough. 

"  So  it  was  like  that  all  summer,  my  grand- 
father keeping  heartsome,  with  the  neighbors 
coming  in  so  steady  to  bring  him  the  news  of 
the  setdement.  There  he  would  sit,  just  inside 
one  of  the  posts,  for  to  pass  his  jokes,  and  tell 
what  he  wished  the  family  to  be  doing  next. 
This  way  it  might  have  kept  going  on  for  forty 
years,  only  it  came  about  that  my  grandfather's 
youngest  child  —  him  that  was  my  father — fell 
sick,  and  seemed  like  to  die. 

"  Well,  when  my  grandfather  heard  that  bad 
news,  he  wass  in  a  terrible  way,  to  be  sure,  for 
he  would  be  longing  to  hold  the  child  in  his 
arms,  so  that  his  heart  was  sore  and  like  to 
break.     Eat  he  could  not,  sleep  he  could  not : 


38 


THE  PRIVILEGE  OF  THE  LIMITS. 


I 


ill 


all  night  he  would  be  groaning,  and  all  day  he 
would  be  walking  around  by  the  posts,  wishing 
that  he  had  not  passed  his  Hielan'  word  of 
honor  not  to  go  beyond  a  post ;  for  he  thought 
how  he  could  have  broken  out  like  a  chentle- 
man,  and  gone  to  see  his  sick  child,  if  he  ha(\, 
stayed  inside  the  jail  wall.  So  it  went  on  three 
days  and  three  nights  pefore  the  wise  thought 
came  into  my  grandfather's  head  to  show  him 
how  he  need  not  go  beyond  the  posts  to  see  his 
little  sick  poy.  With  that  he  went  straight  to 
one  of  the  white  cedar  posts,  and  pulled  it  up 
out  of  the  hole,  and  started  for  home,  taking 
great  care  to  carry  it  in  his  hands  pefore  him, 
so  he  would  not  be  beyond  it  one  bit. 

"My  grandfather  wass  not  half  a  mile  out  of 
Cornwall,  which  was  only  a  little  place  in  those 
days,  when  two  of  the  turnkeys  came  after  him. 

" '  Stop,  Mr.  McTavish,'  says  the  turnkeys. 

" '  What  for  would  I  stop  ?  *  says  my  grand- 
father. 

" '  You  have  broke  your  bail,'  says  they. 


'I"   i 


THE  PRIVILEGE   OF  THE  LIMITS. 


39 


a  i 


It 's  a  lie  for  you,'  says  my  grandfather,  for 

his  temper  flared  up  for  anybody  to   say  he 
would   broke    his   bail.      'Am   I   beyond   the 

post?'   says  my  grandfather. 

"  With  that  they  run  in  on  him,  only  that  he 
knocked  the  two  of  them  over  with  the  post,  and 
went  on  rejoicing,  like  an  honest  man  should, 
at  keeping  his  word  and  overcoming  them  that 
would  slander  his  good  name.  The  only  thing 
pesides  thoughts  of  the  child  that  troubled  him 
was  questioning  whether  he  had  been  strictly 
right  in  turning  round  for  to  use  the  post  to 
defend  himself  in  such  a  way  that  it  was  nearer 
the  jail  than  what  he  wass.  But  when  he 
remembered  how  the  jailer  never  complained  of 
prisoners  of  the  limits  chumping  ofer  the  posts, 
if  so  they  chumped  back  again  in  a  moment, 
the  trouble  went  out  of  his  mind. 

"  Pretty  soon  after  that  he  met  Tuncan  Mac- 
donnell  of  Greenfields,  coming  into  Cornwall 
with  the  wagon. 

'* '  And  how  is  this,  Glengatchie  ? '  says  Tun- 


/ 


li;': 


40 


THE  PRIVILEGE   OF  THE  LIMITS. 


can.     *For  you  were  never  the  man  to  broke 
your  bail.' 

"  Glengatchie,  you  '11  understand,  sir,  is  the 
name  of  my  grandfather's  farm.  ,,        ^ 

"*  Never  fear,  Greenfields,'  says  my  grand- 
father, *  for  I  'm  not  beyond  the  post.' 

"  So  Greenfields  looked  at  the  post,  and  he 
looked  at  my  grandfather,  and  he  scratched  his 
head  a  wee,  and  he  seen  it  was  so ;  and  then 
he  fell  into  a  great  admiration  entirely. 

" '  Get  in  with  me,  Glengatchie  —  it 's  proud 
I  '11  be  to  carry  you  home  ; '  and  he  turned  his 
team  around.  My  grandfather  did  so,  taking 
great  care  to  keep  the  post  in  front  of  him  all 
the  time  ;  and  that  way  he  reached  home.  Out 
comes  •  my  grandmother  running  to  embrace 
him;  but  she  had  to  throw  her  arms  around 
the  post  and  my  grandfather's  neck  at  the  same 
time,  he  was  that  strict  to  be  within  his  promise. 
Pefore  going  ben  the  house,  he  went  to  the 
back  end  of  the  kale-yard  which  was  farthest 
from  the  jail,  and  there  he  stuck  the  post ;  and 


m. 


THE  PRIVILEGE  OF  THE  LIMITS. 


41 


then  he  went  back  to  see  his  sick  child,  while 
all  the  neighbors  that  came  round  was  glad  to 
see  what  a  wise  thought  the  saints  had  put  into 
his  mind  to  save  his  bail  and  his  promise. 

"  So  there  he  stayed  a  week  till  my  father  got 
well.     Of  course  the  constables  came  after  my 
grandfather,  but  the  settlement  would  not  let 
the  creatures  come  within  a  mile  of  Glengatchie. 
You  might  think,  sir,  that  my  grandfather  would 
have  stayed  with  his  wife  and  weans,  seeing  the 
post  "vas  all  the  time  in  the  kale-yard,  and  him 
careful  not  to  go  beyond  it ;  but  he  was  putting 
the  settlement  to  a  great  deal  of  trouble  day 
and  night  to  keep  the  constables  off,  and  he 
was  fearful  that  they  might  take  the  post  away, 
if  ever  they  got  to  Glengatchie,  and  give  him 
the  name  of  false,  that  no  McTavish  ever  had. 
So  Tuncan  Greenfields  and .  ^neas   Sandfield 
drove  my  grandfather  back  to  the  jail,  him  with 
the  post  behind  him  in  the  wagon,  so  as  he 
would  be  between  it  and  the  jail.     Of  course 
Tougal  Stewart  tried  his  best  to  have  the  bail 


'Ml 


liiil 


in; 
I! 


I"  Mil 

'''  ill 


42 


T//£  PRIVILEGE  OF   THE  LIMITS. 


declared  forfeited ;  but  old  Judge  Jones  only 
laughed,  and  said  my  grandfather  was  a  Hielan* 
gentleman,  with  a  very  nice  sense  of  honor,  and 
that  was  chust  exactly  the  truth.  *        / 

"  How  did  my  grandfather  get  free  in  the 
end?  Oh,  then,  that  was  because  of  Tougal 
Stewart  being  careless  —  him  that  thought  he 
knew  so  much  of  the  law.  The  law  was,  you 
will  mind,  that  Tougal  had  to  pay  five  shillings 
a  week  for  keeping  my  grandfather  in  the  limits. 
The  money  wass  to  be  paid  efery  Monday,  and 
it  was  to  be  paid  in  lawful  money  of  Canada, 
too.  Well,  would  you  belief  that  Tougal  paid 
in  four  shillings  in  silver  one  Monday,  and  one 
shilling  in  coppers,  for  he  took  up  the  collection 
in  church  the  day  pefore,  and  it  wass  not  till 
Tougal  had  gone  away  that  the  jailer  saw  that 
one  of  the  coppers  was  a  Brock  copper,  —  a 
medal,  you  will  understand,  made  at  General 
Brock's  death,  and  not  lawful  money  of  Canada 
at  all.  With  that  the  jailer  came  out  to  my 
grandfather. 


THE  PRIVILEGE  OF  THE  LIMITS. 


43 


"  *  Mr.  McTavish/  says  he,  taking  off  lus  hat, 
*you  are  a  free  man,  and  I  'm  glad  of  it.'  Then 
he  told  him  what  Tougal  had  done. 

"  *  I  hope  you  will  not  have  any  hard  feelings 
toward  me,  Mr.  McTavish,'  said  the  jailer ;  and 
a  decent  man  he  wass,  for  all  that  there  wass  not 
a  drop  of  Hielan'  blood  in  him.  *  I  hope  you 
will  not  think  hard  of  me  for  not  being  hospi- 
table to  you,  sir,'  says  he ;  *  but  it 's  against  the 
rules  and  regulations  for  the  jailer  to  be  offering 
the  best  he  can  command  to  the  prisoners. 
Now  that  you  are  free,  Mr.  McTavish,'  says  the 
jailer,  *  I  would  be  a  proud  man  if  Mr.  McTavish 
of  Glengatchie  would  do  me  the  honor  of  taking 
supper  with  me  this  night.  I  will  be  asking 
your  leave  to  invite  some  of  the  gentlemen  of 
the  place,  if  you  will  say  the  word,  Mr.  Mc- 
Tavish,' says  he. 

"Well,  my  grandfather  could  never  bear 
malice,  the  kind  man  he  was,  and  he  seen  how 
bad  the  jailer  felt,  so  he  consented,  and  a  great 
company  came  in,  to  be  sure,  to  celebrate  the 
occasion. 


h  if 

m 


44 


THE  PRIVILEGE   OF   THE  LIMITS. 


i!    I 


I    J 


:i 


III  I  i 


"  Did  my  grandfather  pay  the  balance  on  the 
plough?  What  for  should  you  suspicion,  sir, 
that  my  grandfather  would  refuse  his  honest 
debt?  Of  course  he  paid  for  the  plough,  for 
the  crop  was  good  that  fall. 

"*I  would  be  paying  you  the  other  half  of 
the  plough  now,  Mr.  Stewart,'  says  my  grand- 
father, coming  in  when  the  store  was  full. 

"  *  Hoich,  but  YOU  are  the  honest  McTavish  ! ' 
says  Tougal,  sneering. 

"  But  my  grandfather  made  no  answer  to  the- 
creature,  for  he  thought  it  would  be  unkind  to 
mention  how  Tougal  had  paid  out  six  pounds 
four  shillings  and  eleven  pence  to  keep  him  in 
on  account  of  a  debt  of  two  pound  five  that 
never  was  due  till  it  was  paid." 


I    i 


I i  ill 


McGRATH'S  BAD  NIGHT. 


"  /^^OME,  then,  childer,"  said  Mrs.  McGrath, 
^  and  took  the  big  iron  pot  off.  They 
crowded  around  her,  nine  of  them,  the  eldest 
not  more  than  thirteen,  the  youngest  just  big 
enough  to  hold  out  his  yellow  crockery  bowl. 

"The  youngest  first,"  remarked  Mrs.  McGrath, 
and  ladled  out  a  portion  of  the  boiled  corn- 
meal  to  each  of  the  deplorable  boys  and  girls. 
Before  they  reached  the  stools  from  which  they 
had  sprung  up,  or  squatted  again  on  the  rough 
floor,  they  all  burned  their  mouths  in  tasting 
the  mush  too  eagerly.  Then  there  they  sat, 
blowing  into  their  bowls,  glaring  into  them,  lift- 
ing thetr  loaded  iron  spoons  occasionally  to 
taste  cautiously,  till  the  mush  had  somewhat 
cooled. 


Hi 


'/ 


46 


McGRATH'S  BAD  NIGHT. 


Then,  gobble-de-gobble-de-gobblt,  it  was  all 
gone  !  Though  they  had  neither  sugar,  nor 
milk,  nor  butter  to  it,  they  found  it  a  remark- 
ably excellent  sample  of  mush,  and  wished  only 
that,  in  quantity,  it  had  been  something  more. 

Peter  McGrath  sat  close  beside  the  cooking- 
stove,  holding  Number  Ten,  a  girl-baby,  who 
was  asleep,  and  rocking  Number  Eleven,  who 
was  trying  to  wake  up,  in  the  low,  unpainted 
cradle.  He  never  took  his  eyes  off  Number 
Eleven ;  he  could  not  bear  to  look  around  and 
see  the  nine  devouring  the  corn-meal  so  hun- 
grily. Perhaps  McGrath  could  not,  and  cer- 
tainly he  would  not,  —  he  was  so  obstinate,  — 
have  told  why  he  felt  so  reproached  by  the 
scene.    He  had  felt  very  guilty  for  many  weeks. 

Twenty,  yes,  a  hundred  times  a  day  he 
looked  in  a  dazed  way  at  his  big  hands,  and 
they  reproached  him,  too,  that  they  had  no 
work. 

"  Where  is  our  smooth,  broad -axe  handle  ?  " 
asked  the  fingers,  "  and  why  do  not  the  wide 
chips  fly?  " 


\ 


McGRATH'S  BAD  NIGHT. 


47 


He  was  ashamed,  too,  every  time  he  rose  up, 
so  tall  and  strong,  with  not)-'  .^  to  do,  and 
eleven  children  and  his  wife  next  door  to  star- 
vation j  but  if  he  had  been  asked  to  describe 
his  feelings,  he  would  merely  have  growled  out 
angrily  something  against  old  John  Pontiac. 

"You'll  take  your  sup  now,  Peter?"  asked 
Mrs.  McGrath,  offering  him  the  biggest  of  the 
yellow  bowls.  He  looked  up  then,  first  at  her 
forlorn  face,  then  at  the  pot.  Number  Nine 
was  diligently  scraping  off  some  streaks  of 
mush  that  had  run  down  the  outside ;  Numbers 
Eight,  Seven,  Six,  and  Five  were  looking  re- 
spectfully into  the  pot ;  Numbers  Four,  Three, 
Two,  and  One  were  watching  the  pot,  the  steam- 
ing bowl,  and  their  father  at  the  same  time. 
Peter  McGrath  was  very  hungry. 

"Yourself  had  better  eat,  Mary  Ann,"  he 
said.     "  I  '11  be  having  mine  after  it 's  cooler." 

Mrs.  McGrath  dipped  more  than  a  third  of 
the  bowlful  back  into  the  pot,  and  ate  the  rest 
with  much  satisfaction.  The  numerals  watched 
her  anxiously  but  resignedly. 


48 


McGRATH'S  BAD  NIGHT. 


II 


"  Sure  it  '11  be  cold  entirely,  Peter  dear,"  she 
said,  "  and  the  warmth  is  so  comforting.  Give 
me  little  Norah  now,  the  darlint !  and  be  after 
eating  your  supper." 

She  had  ladled  out  the  last  spoonful  of  mush, 
and  the  pot  was  being  scraped  inside  earnestly 
by  Nine,  Eight,  Seven,  and  Six.  Peter  took  the 
bowl,  and  looked  at  his  children. 

The  earlier  numbers  were  observing  him  with 
peculiar  sympathy,  putting  themselves  in  his 
place,  as  it  were,  possessing  the  bowl  in  imagi- 
nation; the  others  now  moved  their  spoons 
absent-mindedly  around  in  the  pot,  brought 
them  empty  to  their  mouths,  mechanically,  now 
and  again,  sucked  them  more  or  less,  and  still 
stared  steadily  at  their  father. 

His  inner  walls  felt  glued  together,  yet  inde- 
scribably hollow;  the  smell  of  the  mush  went 
up  into  his  nostrils,  and  pungently  provoked  his 
palate  and  throat.     He  was  famishing. 

"Troth,  then,  Mary  Ann,"  he  said,  "there's 
no  hunger  in  me  to-night.     Sure,  I  wish  the 


i' 


McORA'nr'S  BAD  NIGHT. 


49 


chikler  would  n't  leave  me  the  trouble  of  eating 
it.    Come,  then,  all  of  yc  1  " 

The  nine  came  ])romptly  to  his  call.  There 
were  just  twenty-two  large  spoonfuls  in  the 
bowl ;  each  child  received  two ;  the  remaining 
four  went  to  the  four  youngest.  Then  the  bowl 
was  skilfully  scraped  by  Number  Nine,  after 
which  Number  Seven  took  it,  whirled  a  cup  of 
water  artfully  round  its  interior,  and  with  this 
put  a  fine  finish  on  his  meal. 

Peter  McGrath  then  searched  thoughtfully  in 
his  trousers  pockets,  turning  their  corners  up, 
getting  pinches  of  tobacco  dust  out  of  their 
remotest  recesses;  he  put  his  blouse  pocket 
through  a  similar  process.  He  found  no  pockets 
in  his  well-patched  overcoat  when  he  took  it 
down,  but  he  pursued  the  dust  into  its  lining, 
and  separated  it  carefully  from  litde  dabs  of 
wool.  Then  he  put  the  collection  into  an 
extremely  old  black  clay  pipe,  lifted  a  coal  in 
with  his  fingers,  find  took  his  supper. 

It  would  be  absurd  to  assert  that,  on  this 


50 


McGR AIM'S  BAD  NIGHT. 


\ 


continent,  a  strong  man  could  be  so  poor  as 
Peter,  unless  he  had  done  something  very  wrong 
or  very  foolish.  Peter  McGrath  was,  in  truth, 
out  of  work  because  he  had  committed  an  out- 
rage on  economics.  He  had  been  guilty  of 
the  enormous  error  of  misunderstanding,  and 
trying  to  set  at  naught  in  his  own  person,  the 
immutable  law  of  supply  and  demand. 

Fancying  that  a  first-class  hewer  in  a  timber 
shanty  had  an  inalienable  right  to  receive  at 
least  thirty  dollars  a  month,  when  the  demand 
was  only  strong  enough  to  yield  him  twenty-two 
dollars  a  month,  Peter  had  refused  to  engage  at 
the  beginning  of  the    nnter. 

"  Now,  Mr.  McGrath,  you  're  making  a  mis- 
take," said  his  usual  employer,  old  John  Pon- 
tiac.  "  I  'm  offering  you  the  best  wages  going, 
mind  that.  There  's  mighty  little  squared  tim- 
ber coming  out  this  winter." 
,  "  I  'm  ready  and  willing  to  work,  boss,  but 
I  'm  fit  to  arn  thirty  dollars,  surely." 

"So   you   are,  so  you   are,   in   good   times, 


McGRATf/'S  BAD  NIGHT, 


51 


neighbor,  and  I  'd  be  glad  if  men's  wages  were 
forty.  That  could  only  be  with  trade  active, 
and  a  fine  season  for  all  of  us ;  but  I  could  n't 
take  out  a  raft  this  winter,  and  pay  what  you 
ask." 

"  I  'd  work  extra  hard,  I  'm  not  afeard  of 
work." 

"  Not  you,  Peter.  There  never  was  a  lazy 
bone  in  your  body.  Don't  I  know  that  well? 
But  look,  now :  if  I  was  to  pay  you  thirty,  I 
should  have  to  pay  all  the  other  hewers  thirty ; 
and  that 's  not  all.  Scorers  and  teamsters  and 
road-cutters  are  used  to  getting  wages  in  pro- 
portion to  hewers.  Why,  it  would  cost  me  a 
thousand  dollars  a  month  to  give  you  thirty ! 
Go  along,  now,  that 's  a  good  fellow,  and  tell 
your  wife  that  you  *ve  hired  with  me." 

But  Peter  did  not  go  back.  "  I  'm  bound  to 
have  my  rights,  so  I  am,"  he  said  sulkily  to 
iVIary  Ann  when  he  reached  the  cabin.  "  The 
old  boss  is  getting  too  hard  like,  and  set  on 
money.  Twenty-two  dollars  I  No  !  I  '11  go  in 
to  Stambrook  and  hire." 


% 


'11 


w 


52 


McGRATH'S  BAD  NIGHT. 


Majry  Ann  knew  that  she  might  as  well  try  to 
convince  a  saw-log  that  its  proper  course  was 
up-stream,  as  to  protest  against  Peter's  obsti- 
nacy. Moreover,  she  did  think  the  offered 
wages  very  low,  and  had  some  hope  he  might 
better  himself;  but  when  he  came  back  from 
Stambrook,  she  saw  trouble  ahead.  He  did  not 
tell  her  that  there,  where  his  merits  were  not 
known,  he  had  been  offered  only  twenty  dol- 
lars, but  she  surmised  his  disappointment. 

"  You  'd  better  be  after  seeing  the  boss  again, 
maybe,  Peter  dear,"  she  said  timidly. 

"Not  a  step,"  he  answered.  "The  boss '11 
be  after  me  in  a  few  days,  you'll  see."  But 
there  he  was  mistaken,  for  all  the  gangs  were 
full  i 

After  that  Peter  McGrath  tramped  far  and 
wide,  to  many  a  backwoods  hamlet,  looking 
vainly  for  a  job  at  any  wages.  The  season  was 
the  worst  ever  known  on  the  river,  and  before 
January  the  shanties  were  discharging  men,  so 
threatening  was   the   outlook    for   lumbermen, 


McGRATH'S  BAD  NIGHT. 


S3 


and  so  glutted  with  timber  the  markets  of  the 
world. 

Peter's  conscience  accused  him  every  hour, 
but  he  was  too  stubborn  to  go  back  to  John 
Pontiac.  Indeed,  he  soon  got  it  into  his  stupid 
head  that  the  old  boss  was  responsible  for  his 
misfortunes,  and  he  consequently  came  to  hate 
Mr.  Pontiac  very  bitterly. 

After  supping  on  his  pipeful  of  tobacco-dust, 
Peter  sat,  straight- backed,  leaning  elbows  on 
knees  and  chin  on  hands,  wondering  what  on 
earth  was  to  become  of  them  all  next  day.  For 
a  man  out  of  work  there  was  not  a  dollar  of 
credit  at  the  little  village  store ;  and  work ! 
why,  there  was  only  one  kind  of  work  at  which 
money  could  be  earned  in  that  district  in  the 
winter. 

When  his  wife  took  Number  Eleven's  cradle 
into  the  other  room,  she  heard  him,  through 
the  thin  partition  of  upright  boards,  pasted 
over  with  newspapers,  moving  round  in  the 
dim  red  flickering  fire-light  from  the  stove- 
grating. 


vM 


\  \ 


54 


McGRATH'S  BAD  NIGHT. 


The  children  were  all  asleep,  or  pretending 
it ;  Number  Ten  in  the  big  straw  bed,  where  she 
lay  always  between  her  parents ;  Number  Eleven 
in  her  cradle  beside ;  Nine  crosswise  at  the 
foot ;  Eight,  Seven,  Six,  Five,  and  Four  in  the 
other  bed;  One,  Two,  and  Three  curled  up, 
without  taking  off  their  miserable  garments,  on 
the  "locks  "  of  straw  beside  the  kitchen  stove. 

Mary  Ann  knew  very  well  what  Peter  was 
moving  round  for.  She  heard  him  groan,  so 
low  that  he  did  not  know  he  groaned,  when  he 
lifted  off  the  cover  of  the  meal  barrel,  and  could 
feel  nothing  whatever  therein.  She  had  actually 
beaten  the  meal  out  of  the  cracks  to  make  that 
last  pot  of  mush.  He  knew  that  all  the  fish  he 
had  salted  down  in  the  summer  were  gone,  that 
the  flour  was  all  out,  that  the  last  morsel  of  the 
pig  had  been  eaten  up  long  ago ;  but  he  went  to 
each  of  the  barrels  as  though  he  could  not 
realize  that  there  was  really  nothing  left.  There 
were  four  of  those  low  groans. 

"  O  God,  help  him  !   do  help  him  I   please 


\ 


McGRATH'S  BAD  NIGHT. 


55 


do ! "  she  kept  saying  to  herself.  Somehow, 
all  her  sufferings  and  the  children's  were  light 
to  her,  in  comparison,  as  she  listened  to  that 
big,  taciturn  man  groan,  and  him  sore  with  the 
hunger.  * 

When  at  last  she  came  out,  Peter  was  not 
there.  He  had  gone  out  silently,  so  silently 
that  she  wondered,  and  was  scared.  She  opened 
the  door  very  softly,  and  there  he  was,  leaning 
on  the  rail  fence  between  their  little  rocky  plot 
and  the  great  river.  She  closed  the  door 
softly.  .     •  sat  down. 

The  '  vas  a  wide  steaming  space  in  the 
river,  where  the  current  ran  too  swiftly  for  any 
ice  to  form.  Peter  gazed  on  it  for  a  long  while. 
The  mist  had  a  friendly  look;  he  was  soon 
reminded  of  the  steam  from  an  immense  bowl 
of  mush  !  It  vexed  him.  He  looked  up  at  the 
moon.  The  moon  was  certainly  mocking  him ; 
dashing  through  light  clouds,  then  jumping  into 
a  wide,  clear  space,  where  it  soon  became 
motionless,  and  mocked  him  steadily. 


1 


^.\ 


S6 


McGRATH'S  BAD  NIGHT. 


He  had  never  known  old  John  Pontiac  to 
jeer  any  one,  but  there  was  his  face  in  that 
moon,  —  Peter  made  it  out  quite  clearly.  He 
looked  up  the  road  to  where  he  could  see,  on 
the  hill  half  a  mile  distant,  the  shimmer  of 
John  Pontiac's  big  tin-roofed  house.  He 
thought  he  could  make  out  the  outlines  of  all 
the  buildings,  —  he  knew  them  so  well,  —  the 
big  barn,  the  stable,  the  smoke-house,  the 
store-house  for  shanty  supplies. 

Pork  barrels,  flour  barrels,  herring  kegs, 
syrup  kegs,  sides  of  frozen  beef,  hams  and 
flitches  of  bacon  in  the  smoke-house,  bags  of 
beans,  chests  of  tea,  —  he  had  a  vision  of  them 
all !  Teamsters  going  off  to  the  woods  daily 
with  provisions,  the  supply  apparently  inex- 
haustible. 

And  John  Pontiac  had  refused  to  pay  him 
fair  wages  ! 

Peter  in  exasperation  shook  his  big  fist  at 
the  moon;  it  mocked  him  worse  than  ever. 
Then  out  went  his  gaze  to  the  space  of  mist ; 


{  . 


McGRATH'S  BAD  NIGHT. 


57 


it  was  still  more  painfully  like  mush  steam. 
His  pigsty  was  empty,  except  of  snow ;  it 
made  him  think  again  of  the  empty  barrels  in 
the  cabin. 

The  children  empty  too,  or  would  be  to- 
morrow, —  as  empty  as  he  felt  that  minute. 
How  dumbly  the  elder  ones  would  reproach 
him !  and  what  would  comfort  the  younger 
ones  crying  with  hunger? 

Peter  looked  again  up  the  hill,  through  the 
walls  of  the  store-house.  He  was  dreadfully 
hungry.  <--    \ 


"  John  !  John  !  "  Mrs.  Pontiac  jogged  her 
husband.  "  John,  wake  up  !  theie  's  somebody 
trying  to  get  into  the  smoke-house." 

"Eh  — ugh  — ah!  I'm 'sleep  — ugh."  He 
relapsed   again. 

"  John  !  John  !  wake  up  !  There  is  some- 
body !  " 

"  What  —  ugh  —  eh  —  what  you  say  ?  " 

"  There 's  somebody  getting  into  the  smoke- 
house." 


r. 


■i,f 


!'::    ill 


58 


McGRATH'S  BAD  NIGHT. 


**  Well,  there  's  not  much  there." 

"There's  ever  so  much  bacon  and  ham. 
Then  there  's  the  store-house  open." 

"  Oh,  I  guess  there  's  nobody." 

"  But  there  is,  I  'm  sure.  You  must  get 
up !  " 

They  both  got  up  and  looked  out  of  the 
window.  The  snow-drifts,  the  paths  through 
them,  the  store-house,  the  smoke-house,  and 
the  other  white-washed  out-buildings  could  be 
seen  as  clearly  as  in  broad  day.  The  smoke- 
house door  was  open ! 

Old  John  Pontiac  was  one  of  the  kindest 
souls  that  ever  inhabited  a  body,  but  this  was  a 
Httle  too  much.  Still  he  was  sorry  for  the  man, 
no  matter  who,  in  that  smoke-house,  —  some 
Indian  probably.  He  must  be  caught  and 
dealt  with  firmly ;  but  he  did  not  want  the  man 
to  be  too  much  hurt. 

He  put  on  his  clothes  and  sallied  forth.  He 
reached  the  smoke-house ;  there  was  no  one  in 
it ;  there  was  a  gap,  though,  where  two  long 
flitches  of  bacon  /lad  been  ! 


\ 


McGRATH'S  BAD  NIGHT. 


59 


John  Pontiac's  wife  saw  him  go  over  to  the 
store-house,  the  door  of  which  was  open  too. 
He  looked  in,  then  stopped,  and  started  back 
as  if  in  horror.  Two  flitches  tied  together  with 
a  rope  were  on  the  floor,  and  inside  was  a  man 
fining  a  bag  with  floui.  frr  '    i  barrel. 

"  Well,  well !  this  is  a  tei.Je  thing,"  said  oil 
John  Pontiac  to  himself,  shrinking  around  a 
corner.    "  Peter  McGrath  !    Oh,  my  !  oh,  my  !  " 

He  became  hot  all  over,  as  if  he  had  done 
something  disgraceful  himself.  There  was 
nobody  that  he  respected  more  than  that  pig- 
headed Peter.  What  to  do?  He  must  punish 
him  of  course ;  but  how  ?  Jail  —  for  him  with 
eleven  children  !  "  Oh,  my  !  oh,  my  !  "  Old 
John  wished  he  had  not  been  awakened  to  see 
this  terrible  downfall. 

"It  will  never  do  to  let  him  go  off  with  it," 
he  said  to  himself  after  a  httle  reflection.  "  I  '11 
put  him  so  that  he  '11  know  better  another 
time." 

Peter   McGrath,   as   he   entered   the   store- 


tif 


6o 


McGRATH'S  BAD  NIGHT. 


house,  had  felt  that  bacon  heavier  than  the 
heaviest  end  of  the  biggest  stick  of  timber  he  had 
ever  helped  to  cant.  He  felt  guilty,  sneaking, 
disgraced ;  he  felt  that  the  literal  Devil  had  first 
tempted  him  near  the  house,  then  all  suddenly 

—  with  his  own  hunger  pangs  and  thoughts  of 
his  starving  family  —  swept  him  into  the  smoke- 
house to  steal.  But  he  had  consented  to  do  it ; 
he  had  said  he  would  take  flour  too,  —  and  he 
would,  he  was  so  obstinate  !  And  withal,  he 
hated  old  John  Pontiac  worse  than  ever;  for 
now  he  accused  him  of  being  the  cause  of  his 
coming  to  this. 

Then  all  of  a  sudden  he  met  the  face  of 
Pontiac  looking  in  at  the  door. 

Peter  sprang  back ;    he  saw  Stambrook  jail 

—  he  saw  his  eleven  children  and  his  wife  — 
he  felt  himself  a  detected  felon,  and  that  was 
worst  of  all. 

"  Well,  Peter,  you  'd  ought  to  have  come 
right  in,"  were  the  words  that  came  to  his  ears, 
in  John  Pontiac's  heartiest  voice.     "  The  missis 


\ 


\ 


AtcGRATft'S  SAD  MIGHT. 


6l 


would  have  been  glad  to  see  you.  We  did  go 
to  bed  a  bit  early,  but  there  wouldn't  have 
been  any  harm  in  an  old  neighbor  like  you 
waking  us  up.  Not  a  word  of  that  —  hold  on  1 
listen  to  me.  It  would  be  a  pity  if  old  friends 
like  you  and  me,  Peter,  couldn't  help  one 
another  to  a  trifling  loan  of  provisions  without 
making  a  fuss  over  it."  And  old  John,  taking 
up  the  scoop,  went  on  filling  the  bag  as  if  that 
were  a  matter  of  course. 

Peter  did  not  speak ;  he  could  not. 

"  I  was  going  round  to  your  place  to- 
morrow," resumed  John,  cheerfully,  "to  see  if 
I  could  n't  hire  you  again.  There  's  a  job  of 
hewing  for  you  in  the  Conlonge  shanty,  — a 
man  gone  off  sick.  But  I  can't  give  more  'n 
twenty- two,  or  say  twenty- three,  seeing  you  're 
an  old  neighbor.     What  do  you  say  ?  " 

Peter  still  said  nothing ;  he  was  choking. 

•'You  had  better  have  a  bit  of  something 
more  than  bacon  and  flour,  Peter,"  he  went  on, 
"  and  I  '11  give  you  a  hand  to  carry  the  truck 


< ', 


69 


McGRATH'S  BAD  NIGHT. 


home.  I  guess  your  wife  won't  mind  seeing 
me  with  you ;  then  she  '11  know  that  you  've 
taken  a  job  with  me  again,  you  see.  Come 
along  and  give  me  a  hand  to  hitch  the  mare 
up.     I  '11  drive  you  down." 

"  Ah  —  ah  —  Boss  —  Boss  I  "  spoke  Peter 
then,  with  terrible  gasps  between.  "  Boss  —  O 
my  God,  Mr.  Pontiac  —  I  can't  never  look  you 
in  the  face  again  I  "  . 

"Peter  McGrath — old  neighbor," — and 
John  Pontiac  laid  his  hand  on  the  shaking 
shoulder,  —  "I  guess  I  know  all  about  it ;  I 
guess  I  do.  Sometimes  a  man  is  driven  he  don't 
know  how.  Now  we  will  say  no  more  about  it. 
I  '11  load  up,  and  you  come  right  along  with  me. 
And  mind,  I  '11  do  the  talking  to  your  wife." 


Mary  Ann  McGrath  was  in  a  terrible  frame 
of  mind.     What  had  become  of  Peter? 

She  had  gone  out  to  look  down  the  road,  and 
had  been  recalled  by  Number  Eleven's  crying. 
Number  Ten  then  chimed  in ;  Nine,  too,  awoke, 


i       V 


McCmRath's  bad  sight. 


«3 


and  determined  to  resume  his  privileges  as  an 
infant.  One  after  another  they  got  up  and 
huddled  around  her  —  craving,  craving  —  all 
but  the  three  eldest,  who  had  been  well 
practised  in  the  stoical  philosophy  by  the 
gradual  decrease  of  their  rations.  But  these 
bounced  up  suddenly  at  the  sound  of  a  grand 
jangle  of  bells. 

Could  it  be?  Mr.  Pontiac  they  had  no  doubt 
about ;  but  was  that  real  bacon  that  he  laid  on 
the  kitchen  table  ?  Then  a  side  of  beef,  a  can 
of  tea ;  next  a  bag  of  flour,  and  again  an  acturJ 
keg  of  sirup.  Why,  this  was  almost  incredible  1 
And,  last,  he  came  in  with  an  immense  round 
loaf  of  bread  1  The  children  gathered  about 
it ;  old  John  almost  sickened  with  sorrow  for 
them,  and  hurrying  out  his  jacknife,  passed  big 
hunks  arouiul. 

"  Well,  now,  Mrs.  McGrath,"  he  said  during 
these  operations,  "  I  don't  hardly  take  it  kindly 
of  you  and  Peter  not  to  have  come  up  to  an  old 
neighbor's   h(Ai«c    before    this   for   a  bit   of  a 


Sf    i 


N-  i 


64 


McGRATH'S  BAD  NIGHT. 


loan.  It 's  well  I  met  Peter  to-night.  Maybe 
he  'd  never  have  told  me  your  troubles  —  not 
but  what  I  blame  myself  for  not  suspecting  how 
it  was  a  bit  sooner.  I  just  made  him  take  a 
little  loan  for  the  present.  No,  no ;  don't  be  talk- 
ing like  that !  Charity  !  tut !  tut !  it  *{>  just  an 
advance  of  wages.  I  've  got  a  job  for  Peter ; 
he  '11  be  on  pay  to-morrow  again." 

At  that  Mary  Ann  burst  out  crying  again. 
"  Oh,  God  l)less  you,  Mr.  Pontiac  I  it 's  a  kind 
man  you  are  !  May  the  saints  be  about  your 
bedl" 

With  that  she  ran  out  to  Peter,  who  still 
stood  by  the  sleigh ;  she  put  the  baby  in  his 
arms,  and  clinging  to  her  husband's  shoulder, 
cried  more  and  more. 

And  what  did  obstinate  Peter  McGrath  do  ? 
Why,  he  cfted,  too,  with  gasps  and  groans  that 
seemed  almost  to  kill  him. 

"  Go  In,"  he  said  ;  "  go  in,  Mary  Ann  —  go 
in  —  and  kiss  —  the  feet  of  him.  Yes  —  and 
the  boards —  he  stands  on.     You  don't  know 


McGRATH'S  BAD  NIGHT. 


6s 


what  he  's  done  —  for  me.  It 's  broke  I  am 
—  the  bad  heart  of  me  —  broke  entirely  —  with 
the  goodness  of  him.  May  the  heavens  be  his 
bed  1  " 

"Now,  Mrs.  McGrath,"  cried  old  John, 
"never  you  mind  Peter;  he's  a  bit  light- 
headed to-night.  Come  away  in  and  get  a  bite 
for  him.  I  'd  like  a  dish  of  tea  myself  before  I 
go  home."  Didn't  that  touch  on  her  Irish 
hospitality  bring  her  in  quickly ! 

"  Mind  you  this,  Peter,"  said  the  old  man, 
going  out  then,  "  don't  you  be  troubling  your 
wife  with  any  little  secrets  about  to-night; 
that 's  between  you  and  me.  That 's  all  I  ask 
of  you." 

Thus  it  comes  about  that  to  this  day,  when 
Peter  McGrath's  fifteen  children  have  helped 
him  to  become  a  very  prosperous  farmer,  his 
wife  does  not  quite  understand  the  depth  of 
worship  with  which  he  speaks  of  old  Jobn 
Pontiac. 

S 


m 


66 


McGRATH'S  BAD  NIGHT. 


Mrs.  Pontiac  never  knew  the  story  of  the 
night. 

"  Never  mind  who  it  was,  Jane,"  John  said, 
turning  out  the  light,  on  returning  to  bed,  "  ex- 
cept this, — it  was  a  neighbor  in  sore  trouble." 

"  Stealing  —  and  you  helped  him  !  Well, 
John,  such  a  man  as  you  are ! " 

"  Jane,  I  don't  ever  rightly  know  what  kind 
of  a  man  I  might  be,  suppose  hunger  was  cruel 
on  me,  and  on  you,  and  all  of  us  !  Let  us  bless 
God  that  he  *s  saved  us  from  the  terriblest. 
temptations,  and  thank  him  most  especially 
when  he  inclines  our  hearts  —  incUnes  our 
hearts  —  that's  all." 


./■ 


u- 


GREAT  GODFREY'S   LAMENT. 


"  LJ  ARK  to  Angus  !  Man,  his  heart  will  be 
sore  the  night !  In  five  years  I  have 
not  leard  him  playing  'Great  Godfrey's  La- 
ment,' "  said  old  Alexander  McTavish,  as  with 
him  I  was  sitting  of  a  June  evening,  at  sun- 
down, under  a  wide  apple-tree  of  his  orchard- 
lawn. 

When  the  sweet  song-sparrows  of  the  Ottawa 
valley  had  ceased  their  plaintive  strains,  Angus 
McNeil  began  on  his  violin.  This  night,  in- 
stead of  "  TuUochgorum  "  or  "  Roy's  Wife  "  or 
"The  March  of  the  McNeils,"  or  any  merry 
strathspey,  he  crept  into  an  unusual  movement, 
and  from  a  distance  came  the  notes  of  an  ex- 
ceeding strange  strain  blent  with  the  meditative 
murmur  of  the  Rataplan  Rapids. 


i  i 


'M. 


68 


GREAT  GODFREY'S  LAMEN7, 


m 

r 


it 


I  am  not  well  enough  acquainted  with  musi- 
cal terms  to  tell  the  method  of  that  composi- 
tion in  which  the  wail  of  a  Highland  coronach 
seemed  mingled  with  such  mournful  crooning  as 
I  had  heard  often  from  Indian  voyageurs  north 
of  Lake  Superior.  Perhaps  that  fancy  sprang 
from  my  knowledge  that  Angus  McNeil's  father 
had  been  a  younger  son  of  the  chief  of  the 
McNeil  clan,  and  his  mother  a  daughter  of  the 
greatest  man  of  the  Cree  nation. 

<*Ay,  but  Angus  is  wae,"  sighed  old  Mc- 
Tavish.  "  What  will  he  be  seeing  the  now  ?  It 
was  the  night  before  his  wife  died  that  he  played 
yon  last.  Come,  we  will  go  up  the  road.  He 
does  be  liking  to  see  the  people  gather  to 
listen."  ''  '  ■ 

We  walked,  maybe  three  hundred  yards,  and 
stood  leaning  against  the  ruined  picket-fence 
that  surrounds  the  great  stone  house  built  by 
Hector  McNeil,  the  father  of  Angus,  when  he 
retired  from  his  position  as  one  of  the  "Big 
Bourgeois  "  of  the  famous  Northwest  Fur  Trad- 
ing Company.  , 


*) 


GREAT  GODFREY'S  LAMENT. 


69 


The  huge  square  structure  of  four  stories  and 
a  basement  is  divided,  above  the  ground  floor, 
into  eight  suites,  some  of  four,  and  some  of  five 
rooms.  In  these  suites  the  fur-trader,  whose 
ideas  were  all  patriarchal,  had  designed  that  he 
and ,  his  Indian  wife,  with  his  seven  sons  and 
their  future  families,  should  live  to  the  end  of 
his  days  and  theirs.  That  was  a  dream  at  the 
time  when  his  boys  were  all  under  nine  years 
old,  and  Godfrey  little  more  than  a  baby  in 
arms. 

The  ground-floor  is  divided  by  a  hall  twenty- 
five  feet  wide  into  two  long  chambers,  one 
intended  to  serve  as  a  dining-hall  for  the  multi- 
tude of  descendants  that  Hector  expected  to 
see  round  his  old  age,  the  other  as  a  withdraw- 
ing-room  for  himself  and  his  wife,  or  for  festive 
occasions.  In  this  mansion  Angus  McNeil  now 
dwelt  alone. 

He  sat  out  that  evening  on  a  balcony  at  the 
rear  of  the  hall,  whence  he  could  overlook  the 
McTavish  place  and  the  hamlet  that  extends  a 


*: 


u 


70 


GREAT  GODFREY'S  LAMENT. 


:iB 


i'ii' 


Hi 


quarter  of  a  mile  further  down  the  Ottawa's 
north  shore.  His  right  side  was  toward  the 
large  group  of  French- Canadian  people  who 
had  gathered  to  hear  him  play.  Though  he 
was  sitting,  I  could  make  out  that  his  was  a 
gigantic  figure. 

*'Ay  —  it  will  be  just  exactly  'Great  God- 
frey's Lament,'"  McTavish  whispered.  "Weel 
do  I  mind  him  playing  yon  many 's  the  night 
after  Godfrey  was  laid  in  the  mools.  Then  he 
played  it  no  more  till  before  his  ain  wife  died. 
What  is  he  seeing  now  ?  Man,  it 's  weel  kenned 
he  has  the  second  sight  at  times.  Maybe  he 
sees  the  pit  digging  for  himself.  He  's  the  last 
of  them." 

"Who  was  Great  Godfrey?"  I  asked,  rather 
loudly.  '  ' 

Angus  McNeil  instantly  cut  short  the  "  La- 
ment," rose  from  his  chair,  and  faced  us. 

"Aleck  McTavish,  who  have  you  with  you?" 
he  called  imperiously. 

*'  My  young  cousin  from  the  city,  Mr.  Mc- 
Neil," said  McTavish.  with  deference. 


\ 


i 


i 


GREAT  GODFREY'S  LAMENT. 


n 


"  Bring  him  in.  1  wish  to  spoke  with  you, 
Aleck  McTavish.  The  young  man  that  is  not 
acquaint  with  the  name  of  Great  Godfrey  Mc- 
Neil can  come  with  you.  I  will  be  at  the  great 
door." 

"It's  strange-like,"  said  McTavish,  as  we 
went  to  the  upper  gate.  "  He  has  not  asked 
me  inside  for  near  five  years.  I  'm  feared  his 
wits  is  disordered,  by  his  way  of  speaking. 
Mind  what  you  say.  Great  Godfrey  was  most 
like  a  god  to  Angus." 

When  Angus  McNeil  met  us  at  the  front 
door  I  saw  he  was  verily  a  giant.  Indeed,  he 
was  a  wee  bit  more  than  six  and  a  half  feet  tall 
when  he  stood  up  straight.  Now  he  was 
stooped  a  little,  not  with  age,  but  with  con- 
sumption, —  the  disease  most  fatal  to  men  of 
mixed  white  and  Indian  blood.  His  face  was 
dark  brown,  his  features  of  the  Indian  cast,  but 
his  black  hair  had  not  the  Indian  lankness.  It 
curled  tightly  round  his  grand  head. 

Without  a  word  he  beckoned  us  on  into  the 


■'Ill 


t 

i 


72 


GREAT  GODFREY'S  LAMENT. 


vast  withdrawing  room.  Without  a  word  he 
seated  himself  beside  a  large  oaken  centre- 
table,  and  motioned  us  to  sit  opposite. 

Before  he  broke  silence,  I  saw  that  the  win- 
dows of  that  great  chamber  were  hung  with 
faded  red  damask ;  that  the  heads  of  many  a 
bull  moose,  buck,  bear,  and  wolf  grinned  among 
guns  and  swords  and  claymores  from  its  walls ; 
that  charred  logs,  fully  fifteen  feet  lung,  re- 
mained in  the  fireplace  from  the  last  winter's 
burning;  that  there  were  three  dim  portraits 
in  oil  over  the  mantel ;  that  the  room  contained 
much  frayed  furniture,  once  sumptuous  of  red 
velvet ;  and  that  many  skins  of  wild  beasts  lay 
strewn  over  a  hard-wood  floor  whose  edges  still 
retained  their  polish  and  faintly  gleamed  in 
rays  from  the  red  west. 

That  light  was  enough  to  show  that  two  of 
the  oil  paintings  must  be  those  of  Hector  Mc- 
Neil and  his  Indian  wife.  Between  these  hung 
one  of  a  singularly  handsome  youth  with  yellow 
hair. 


GREAT  GODFREY'S  LAMENT. 


73 


"Here  my  father  lay  dead,"  cried  Angus 
McNeil,  suddenly  striking  the  table.  He  stared 
at  us  silently  for  many  seconds,  then  again 
struck  the  table  with  the  side  of  his  clenched 
fist.  "He  lay  here  dead  on  this  table — yes  I 
It  was  Godfrey  that  straked  him  out  all  alone 
on  this  table.  You  min '  Great  Godfrey,  Aleck 
McTavish." 

.  "  Well  I  do,  Mr.  McNeil ;  and  your  mother 
yonder,  —  a  grand  lady  she  was."  McTavish 
spoke  with  curious  humility,  seeming  wishful,  I 
thought,  to  comfort  McNeil's  sorrow  by  exciting 
his  pride.      , 

"Ay  —  they'll  tell  hereafter  that  she  was 
just  exactly  a  squaw,"  cried  the  big  man, 
angrily.  "  But  grand  she  was,  and  a  great  lady, 
and  a  proud.  Oh,  man,  man  !  but  they  were 
proud,  my  father  and  my  Indian  mother.  And 
Godfrey  was  the  pride  of  the  hearts  of  them 
both.  No  wonder;  but  it  was  sore  on  the 
rest  of  us  after  they  took  him  apart  from  our 
ways." 


74 


GREAT  GODFREY'S  LAMENT. 


Aleck  McTavish  spoke  not  a  word,  and  big 
Angus,  after  a  long  pause,  went  on  as  if  almost 
unconscious  of  our  presence  :  — 

"  White  was  Godfrey,  and  rosy  of  the  cheek 
like  my  father ;  and  the  blue  eyes  of  him  would 
match  the  sky  when  you'll  be  seeing  it  up 
through  a  blazing  maple  on  a  clear  day  of 
October.  Tall,  and  straight,  and  grand  was 
Godfrey,  my  brother.  What  was  the  thing  God- 
frey could  not  do?  The  songs  of  him  hushed 
the  singing- birds  on  the  tree,  and  the  fiddle  he 
would  play  to  take  the  soul  out  of  your  body. 
There  was  no  white  one  among  us  till  he  was 
born. 

"  The  rest  of  us  all  were  just  Indians  —  ay,  ' 
Indians,  Aleck  McTavish.  Brown  we  were, 
and  the  desire  of  us  was  all  for  the  wc  3  and 
the  river.  Godfrey  had  white  sense  like  my 
father,  and  often  we  saw  the  same  look  in  his 
eyes.     My  God,  but  we  feared  our  father !  " 

Angus  paused  to  cough.  After  the  fit  he  sat 
silent   for   some   minutes.     The   voice   of  the 


GREAT  GODFREY'S  LAMENT. 


75 


great  rapid  seemed  to  fill  the  room.  When  he 
spoke  again,  he  stared  past  our  seat  with  fixed, 
dilated  eyes,  as  if  tranced  by  a  vision. 

"  Godfrey,  Godfrey  —  you  hear  !  Godfrey, 
the  six  of  us  would  go  over  the  falls  and  not 
think  twice  of  it,  if  it  would  please  you,  when 
you  were  little.  Oich,  the  joy  we  had  in  the 
white  skin  of  you,  and  the  fine  ways,  till  my 
father  and  mother  saw  we  were  just  making  an 
Indian  of  you,  like  ourselves  !  So  they  took  you 
away ;  ay,  and  many 's  the  day  the  six  of  us  went 
to  the  woods  and  the  river,  missing  you  sore. 
It 's  then  you  began  to  look  on  us  with  that 
look  that  we  could  not  see  was  different  from 
the  look  we  feared  in  the  blue  eyes  of  our 
father.  Oh,  but  we  feared  him,  Godfrey  !  And 
the  time  went  by,  and  we  feared  and  we  hated 
you  that  seemed  lifted  up  above  your  Indian 
brothers ! " 

"  Oich,  the  masters  they  got  to  teach  him  !  " 
said  Angus,  addressing  himself  again  to  my 
cousin.     "  In  the   Latin   and  the  Greek  they 


i? 


76 


GREAT  GODFREY'S  LAMENT. 


i  I 


trained  him.  History  books  he  read,  and 
stories  in  song.  Ay,  and  the  manners  of 
Godfrey  1  Well  might  the  whole  pride  of  my 
father  and  mother  be  on  their  one  white  son.  ^ 
A  grand  young  gentleman  was  Godfrey,  —  Great 
Godfrey  we  called  him,  when  he  was  eighteen. 

"  The  fine,  rich  people  that  would  come  up 
in  bateaux  from  Montreal  to  visit  my  father 
had  the  smile  and  the  kind  word  for  Godfrey  j 
but  they  looked  upon  us  with  the  eyes  of  the 
white  man  for  the  Indian.  And  that  look 
we  were  more  and  more  sure  was  growing 
harder  in  Godfrey's  eyes.  So  we  looked  back 
at  him  with  the  eyes  of  the  wolf  that  stares  at 
the  bull  moose,  and  is  fierce  to  pull  him  down, 
but  dares  not  try,  for  the  moose  is  too  great 
and  lordly. 

*'  Mind  you,  Aleck  McTavish,  for  all  we 
hated  Godfrey  when  we  thought  he  would  be 
looking  at  us  like  strange  Indians  —  for  all  that, 
yet  we  were  proud  of  him  that  he  was  our  own 
brother.     Well,  we  minded  how  he  was  all  like 


^ 


\ 


\  V 


GREAT  GODFREV^S  LAMENT. 


77 


one  with  us  when  he  was  little;  and  in  the 
calm  looks  of  him,  and  the  white  skin,  and  the 
yellow  hair,  and  the  grandeur  of  him,  we  had 
pride,  do  you  understand?  Ay,  and  in  the 
strength  of  him  we  were  glad.  Would  we  not 
sit  still  and  pleased  when  it  was  the  talk  how 
he  could  run  quicker  than  the  best,  and  jump 
higher  than  his  head  —  ay,  would  we  !  Man, 
there  was  none  could  compare  in  strength  with 
Great  Godfrey,  the  youngest  of  us  all  I 

"  He  and  my  father  and  mother  more  and 
more  lived  by  themselves  in  this  room.  Yonder 
room  across  the  hall  was  left  to  us  six  Indians. 
No  manners,  no  learning  had  we ;  we  were  no 
fit  company  for  Godfrey.  My  mother  was  like 
she  was  wilder  with  love  of  Godfrey  the  more 
he  grew  and  the  grander,  and  never  a  word  for 
days  and  weeks  together  did  she  give  to  us.  It 
was  Godfrey  this,  and  Godfrey  that,  and  all  her 
thought  was  Godfrey  1 

"Most  of  all  we  hated  him  when  she  was 
lying  dead  here  on  this  table.    We  six  in  the 


78 


GREAT  GODFREYS  LAMENT. 


Other  room  could  hear  Godfrey  and  my  father 
groan  and  sigh.  We  would  step  softly  to  the 
door  and  listen  to  them  kissing  her  that  was 
dead,  —  them  white,  and  she  Indian  like  our- 
selves, —  and  us  not  daring  to  go  in  for  the  fear 
of  the  eyes  of  our  father.  So  the  soreness  was 
in  our  hearts  so  cruel  hard  that  we  would  not 
go  in  till  the  last,  for  all  their  asking.  My  God, 
my  God,  Aleck  McTavish,  if  you  saw  her ! 
she  seemed  smiling  like  at  Godfrey,  and  she 
looked  like  him  then,  for  all  she  was  brown 
as  November  oak-leaves,  and  he  white  that  day 
as  the  froth  on  the  rapid. 

"That  put  us  farther  from  Godfrey  than 
before.  And  farther  yet  we  were  from  him 
after,  when  he  and  my  father  would  be  walking 
up  and  down,  up  and  down,  arm  in  arm,  up 
and  down  the  lawn  in  the  evenings.  They 
would  be  talking  about  books,  and  the  great 
McNeils  in  Scotland.  The  six  of  us  knew  we 
were  McNeils,  for  all  we  were  Indians,  and  we 
would  listen  to  the  talk  of  the  great  pride  and 


t!« 


GREAT  GODFREY'S  LAMENT, 


79 


the  great  deeds  of  the  McNeils  that  was  our 
own  kin.  We  would  be  drinking  the  whiskey 
if. we  had  it,  and  saying:  *  Godfrey  to  be  the 
only  McNeil !  Godfrey  to  take  all  the  pride  of 
the  name  of  us  ! '  Oh,  man,  man !  but  we 
hated  Godfrey  sore." 

Big  Angus  paused  long,  and  I  seemed  to  see 
clearly  the  two  fair-haired,  tall  men  walking  arm 
in  arm  on  the  lawn  in  the  twilight,  as  if  uncon- 
scious or  careless  of  being  watched  and  over- 
heard by  six  sore-hearted  kinsmen. 

"You'll  mind  when  my  father  was  thrown 
from  his  horse  and  carried  into  this  room, 
Aleck  McTavish?  Ay,  well  you  do.  But  you 
nor  no  other  living  man  but  me  knows  what 
came  about  the  night  that  he  died. 
J  "  Godfrey  was  alone  with  him.  The  six  of 
us  were  in  yon  room.  Drink  we  had,  but 
cautious  we  were  with  it,  for  there  was  a  deed 
to  be  done  that  would  need  all  our  senses. 
We  sat  in  a  row  on  the  floor  —  we  were 
Indians  —  it  was  our  wigwam  —  we  sat  on  the 


!l 


n 

m 


ISii' 


80 


.     \ 


GREAT  GODFREY* S  LAMENT. 


floor  to  be  against  the  ways  of  them  two. 
Godfrey  was  in  here  across  the  hall  from  us ; 
alone  he  was  with  our  white  father.  He  would 
be  chief  over  us  by  the  will,  no  doubt,  —  and  if 
Godfrey  lived  through  that  night  it  would  be 
strange. ' 

"  We  were  cautious  with  the  whiskey,  I  told 
you  before.  Not  a  sound  could  we  hear  of 
Godfrey  or  of  my  father.  Only  the  rapid, 
calling  and  calling,  —  I  mind  it  well  that  night. 
Ay,  and  well  I  mind  the  striking  of  the  great 
clock,  —  tick,  tick,  tick,  tick,  tick,  —  I  listened 
and  I  dreamed  on  it  till  I  doubted  but  it  was 
the  beating  of  my  father's  heart. 

"  Ten  o'clock  was  gone  by,  and  eleven  was 
near.  How  many  of  us  sat  sleeping  I  know 
not ;  but  I  woke  up  with  a  start,  and  there  was 
Great  Godfrey,  with  a  candle  in  his  hand,  look- 
ing down  strange  at  us,  and  us  looking  up 
strange  at  him. 

"  *  He  is  dead,'  Godfrey  said. 

"  We  said  nothing. 


.\ 


GREAT  GODFREY'S  LAMENT. 


8l 


**  *  Father  died  two  hours  ago,'  Godfrey  said. 

"  We  said  nothing.    , 

"  *Our  father  is  white, —  he  is  very  white,* 
Godfrey  said,  and  he  trembled.  '  Our  mother 
was  brown  when  she  was  dead.' 

"  Godfrey's  voice  was  wild. 

"  <  Come,  brothers,  and  see  how  white  is  our 
father,'  Godfrey  said. 

"  No  one  of  us  moved. 

"  *  Won't  you  come  ?  In  God's  name,  come,' 
said  Godfrey.  *  Oich  —  but  it  is  very  strange  ! 
I  have  looked  in  his  face  so  long  that  now  I  do 
not  know  him  for  my  father.  He  is  like  no 
kin  to  me,  lying  there.     I  am  alone,  alone.' 

"  Godfrey  wailed  in  a  manner.  It  made  me 
ashamed  to  hear  his  voice  like  that  —  him  that 
looked  like  my  father  that  was  always  silent  as 
a  sword  —  him  that  was  the  true  McNeil. 

"  '  You  look  at  me,  and  your  eyes  are  the 
eyes  of  my  mother,'  says  Godfrey,  staring 
wilder.  *  What  are  you  doing  here,  all  so 
still?     Drinking  the  whiskey?  I  am  the  same 


in 

\i  i,| 


82 


GREAT  GODFREY'S  LAMENT. 


'!& 


as  you.  I  am  your  brother.  I  will  sit  with  you, 
and  if  you  drink  the.  whiskey,  I  will  drink  the 
whiskey,  too.' 

"  Aleck  McTavish  !  with  that  he  sat  down  on 
the  floor  in  the  dirt  and  litter  beside  Donald, 
that  was  oldest  of  us  all. 

"  *  Give  me  the  bottle,'  he  said.  *  I  am  as 
much  Indian  as  you,  brothers.  What  you  do  I 
will  do,  as  I  did  when  I  was  little,  long  ago.' 

**  To  see  him  sit  down  in  his  best, — all  his 
learning  and  his  grand  manners  as  if  forgotten, 
—  man,  it  was  like  as  if  our  father  himself  was 
turned  Indian,  and  was  low  in  the  dirt ! 

"What  was  in  the  heart  of  Donald  I  don't 
know,  but  he  lifted  the  bottle  and  smashed  it 
down  on  the  floor. 

"  *  God  in  heaven  !  what 's  to  become  of 
the  McNeils  !  You  that  was  the  credit  of  the 
family,  Godfrey  ! '  says  Donald  with  a  groan. 

"  At  that  Great  Godfrey  jumped  to  his  feet 
like  he  was  come  awake. 

"  *  You  're    fitter    to   be    the    head   of  the 


I     1 

I 


'  t 


GREAT  GODFREY'S  LAMENT. 


83 


McNeils  than  I  am,  Donald/  says  he ;  and  with 
that  the  tears  broke  out  of  his  eyes,  and  he  cast 
himself  into  Donald's  arms.  Well,  with  that 
we  all  began  to  cry  as  if  our  hearts  would  break. 
I  threw  myself  down  on  the  floor  at  Godfrey's 
feet,  and  put  my  arms  round  his  knees  the  same 
as  I  'd  lift  him  up  when  he  was  little.  There  I 
cried,  and  we  all  cried  around  him,  and  after  a 
bit  I  said  :  — 

"  *  Brothers,  this  was  what  was  in  the  mind 
of  Godfrey.  He  was  all  alone  in  yonder.  We 
are  his  brothers,  and  his  heart  warmed  to  us, 
and  he  said  to  himself,  it  was  better  to  be  like 
us  than  to  be  alone,  and  he  thought  if  he  came 
and  sat  down  and  drank  the  whiskey  with  us, 
he  would  be  our  brother  again,  and  not  be  any 
more  alone.* 

"  *  Ay,  Angus,  Angus,  but  how  did  you 
know  that?'  says  Godfrey,  crying;  and  he  put 
his  arms  round  my  neck,  and  lifted  m-  p  till 
we  were  breast  to  breast.  With  that  we  all  put 
our  arms   some   way  round   one  another  and 


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If. 


84 


GREAT  GODFREY'S  LAMENT. 


Godfrey,  and  there  we  stood  sighing  and  sway- 
ing and  sobbing  a  long  time,  and  no  man  saying 
a  word. 

"  '  Oh,  man,  Godfrey  dear,  but  our  father  is 
gone,  and  who  can  talk  with  you  now  about  the 
Latin,  and  the  history  books,  and  the  great 
McNeils  —  and  our  mother  that 's  gone  ?  '  says 
Donald ;  and  the  thought  of  it  was  such  pity 
that  our  hearts  seemed  like  to  break. 

"  But  Godfrey  said  :  '  We  will  talk  together 
like  brothers.  If  it  shames  you  for  me  to  be 
like  you,  then  I  will  teach  you  all  they  taught 
me,  and  we  will  all  be  like  our  white  father.' 

"  So  we  all  agreed  to  have  it  so,  if  he  would 
tell  us  what  to  do.  After  that  we  came  in  here 
with  Godfrey,  and  we  stood  looking  at  my 
father's  white  face.  Godfrey  all  alone  had 
straked  him  out  on  this  table,  with  the  silver- 
pieces  on  the  eyes  that  we  had  feared.  But 
the  silver  we  did  not  fear.  Maybe  you  will  not 
understand  it,  Aleck  McTavish,  but  our  father 
never  seemed  such  close  kin  to  us  as  when  we 


GREAT  GODFREY'S  LAMENT. 


«s 


would  look  at  him  dead,  and  at  Godfrey,  that 
was  the  picture  of  him,  living  and  kind. 

"  After  that  you  know  what  happened  your- 
self." 

"Well  I  do,  Mr.  McNeil.  It  was  Great 
Godfrey  that  was  the  father  to  you  all,"  said 
my  cousin. 

"Just  that,  Aleck  McTavish.  All  that  he 
had  was  ours  to  use  as  we  would,  —  his  land, 
money,  horses,  this  room,  his  learning.  Some 
of  us  could  learn  one  thing  and  some  of  us 
could  learn  another,  and  some  could  learn 
nothing,  not  even  how  to  behave.  What  I 
could  learn  was  the  playing  of  the  fiddle. 
Many  's  the  hour  Godfrey  would  play  with  me 
while  the  rest  were  all  happy  around. 

"In  gre.i'  content  we  lived  like  brothers, 
and  proud  to  see  Godfrey  as  white  and  fine  and 
grand  as  the  best  gentleman  that  ever  came  up 
to  visit  him  out  of  Montreal.  Ay,  in  great 
content  we  lived  all  together  till  the  consump- 
tion came  on  Donald,  and  he  was  gone.    Then 


5    J 

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pit 

1  k  ' 


86 


GREAT  GODFREY ^S  LAMENT. 


it  came  and  came  back,  and  came  back  again, 
till  Hector  was  gone,  and  Ranald  was  gone, 
and  in  ten  years'  time  only  Godfrey  and  I  were 
left.  Then  both  of  us  married,  as  you  know. 
But  our  children  died  as  fast  as  they  were  born, 
almost,  —  for  the  curse  seemed  on  us.  Then 
h's  wife  died,  and  Godfrey  sighed  and  sighed 
ever  after  that. 

*  One  night  I  was  sleeping  with  the  door  of 
my  room  open,  so  I  could  hear  if  Godfrey 
needed  my  help.  The  cough  was  on  him 
then.  Out  of  a  dream  of  him  looking  at  my 
father's  white  face  I  woke  and  went  to  his  bad. 
He  was  not  there  at  all. 

"  My  heart  went  cold  with  fear,  for  I  heard 
the  rapid  very  clear,  like  the  nights  they  all 
died.  Then  I  heard  the  music  begin  down 
stairs,  here  in  this  chamber  where  they  were 
all  laid  out  dead,  —  right  here  on  this  table 
where  I  will  soon  lie  -ike  ti>e  rest.  I  leave  it 
to  you  to  see  it  done,  Aleck  McTavisli,  for  you 
are  a  Highlandman  by  blood.     It  was  that  I 


GREAT  GODFREY'S  LAMENT. 


87 


wanted  to  say  to  you  when  I  called  you  in.  I 
have  seen  myself  in  my  cofifin  three  nights. 
Nay,  say  nothing ;  you  will  see. 

"  Healing  the  music  that  night,  down  I  came 
softly.  Here  sat  Godfrey,  and  the  kindest 
look  was  on  his  face  that  ever  I  saw.  He  had 
his  fiddle  in  his  hand,  and  he  played  about  all 
our  lives. 

"  He  played  about  how  we  all  came  down 
from  the  North  in  the  big  canoe  with  my  father 
and  mother,  when  we  were  little  children  and 
him  a  baby.  He  played  of  the  rapids  we 
passed  over,  and  of  the  rustling  of  the  poplar- 
trees  and  the  purr  of  the  pines.  He  played  till 
the  river  you  hear  now  was  in  the  fiddle,  with 
the  sound  of  our  paddles,  and  the  fish  jumping 
for  flies.  He  played  about  the  long  winters 
when  we  were  young,  so  that  the  snow  of  those 
winters  seemed  falling  again.  The  ringing  of 
our  skates  on  the  ice  I  co\i^<\  hear  in  the  fiddle. 
He  played  through  all  our  lives  when  we  were 
young  and  going  in  the  woods  yond^^r  together 
—  and  then  it  was  the  sore  lament  began  1 


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88 


GREAT  GODFREY* S  LAMENT. 


"  It  was  like  as  if  he  played  how  they  kept 
him  away  from  his  brothers,  and  him  at  his 
books  thinking  of  them  in  the  woods,  and  him 
hearing  the  partridges'  drumming,  and  the 
squirrels'  chatter,  and  all  the  little  birds  singing 
and  singing.  Oich,  man,  but  there 's  no  words 
for  tht  sadness  of  it !  " 

Old  Angus  ceased  to  speak  as  he  took  his 
violin  from  the  table  and  struck  into  the  middle 
of  "  Great  Godfrey's  Lament."  As  he  played, 
his  wide  eyes  looked  past  us,  and  the  tears 
streamed  down  his  brown  cheeks.  When  the 
woful  strain  ended,  he  said,  staring  past  us : 
"  Ay,  Godfrey,  you  were  always  our  brother." 

Then  he  put  his  face  down  in  his  big  brown 
hands,  and  we  left  him  without  another  word. 


It  'MV. 


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THE   RED-HEADED  WINDEGO. 


I 


BIG  Baptiste  Segiiin,  on  snow-shoes  nearly  six 
feet  long,  strode  mightily  out  of  the  for- 
est, and  gazed  across  the  treeless  valley  ahead. 

"  Hooraw  !  No  choppin*  for  two  mile  !  "  he 
shouted. 

"  Hooraw  !  Bully  !  Hi-yi !  "  yelled  the  axe- 
men, Pierre,  "  Jawnny,"  and  "  Frawce,"  two 
hundred  yards  behind.  Their  cries  were  taken 
up  by  the  two  chain-bearers  still  farther  back. 

"  Is  it  a  lake,  Baptiste  ?  "  cried  Tom  Duns- 
combe,  the  young  surveyor,  as  he  hurried  for- 
ward through  balsams  that  edged  the  woods 
and  concealed  the  open  space  from  those  among 
the  trees. 

"  No,  seh  ,•  only  a  beaver  meddy." 

"Clean?" 


90 


THE  RED-HEADED   WIND  EGO. 


« 


Clean  !   Yesseh  !   Clean  *s  your  face.   Hain't 
no  tree  for  two  mile  if  de  line  is  go  right." 

"  Good  !  VVc  shall  make  seven  miles  to- 
day," said  Tom,  as  he  came  forward  with 
immense  strides,  carrying  a  compass  and 
Jacob's-staff.  Behind  him  the  nv-men  slashed 
along,  striking  white  slivers  from  the  pink  and 
scaly  columns  of  red  pines  that  shot  up  a  hun- 
dred and  twenty  feet  ithout  a  branch.  If  any 
inderbrush  grew  there,  it  was  beneath  the 
eight-feet-deep  February  snow,  so  that  one 
could  see  far  away  down  a  multitude  of  vaulted, 
converging  aisK  s.  • , 

Our  young  surveyor  took  no  thought  of  the 
beauty  and  majesty  of  the  forest  he  was  leaving. 
His  thoughts  and  those  of  his  men  were  set 
solely  on  getting  head;  for  all  hands  had  been 
promised  double  pay  for  their  whole  winter,  in 
case  they  should  succeed  in  running  a  line 
round  the  disputed  Moose  Lake  timber  berth 
before  the  tenth  of  April. 

Their  success  would  secure  the  claim  of  their 


TMB  RED-HEADED  H^mDEGO. 


91 


employer,  Old  Dan  Mcl'^ichran,  whereas  their 
failure  would  submit  him  perhaps  to  the  loss  of 
the  limit,  and  certainly  to  a  costly  lawsuit  with 
"  Old  Rory  "  Carmichael,  another  potentate  of 
the  Upper  Ottawa. 

At  least  six  weeks  more  of  fair  snow-sl  "ng 
would  be  needed  to  "  blaze "  out  the  ' 
even  if  the  unknown  country  before  them 
should  turn  out  to  be  less  broken  by  cedar 
swamps  and  high  precipices  than  they  feared. 
A  few  days'  thaw  with  rain  would  make  slush  of 
the  eight  feet  of  snow,  and  compel  the  party 
either  to  keep  in  camp,  or  risk  mal  de  raqtiette, 
—  strain  of  legs  by  heavy  snow- shoeing.  So 
they  were  in  great  haste  to  make  the  best  of 
fine  weather.  • 

Tom  thrust  his  Jacob's-stafif  into  the  snow, 
set  the  compass  sights  to  the  right  bearing, 
looked  through  them,  and  stood  by  to  let  Big 
Baptiste  get  a  course  along  the  line  ahead. 
Baptiste's  duty  was  to  walk  straight  for  some 
selected  object  far  away  on  the  line.     In  wood- 


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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  873-4S03 


92 


THE  RED-HEADED  WINDEGO. 


land  the  axemen  "  blazed ''  trees  on  both  sides 
of  his  snow-shoe  track. 

i 

Baptiste  was  as  expert  at  his  job  as  any 
Indian,  and  indeed  he  looked  as  if  he  had  a 
streak  of  Iroquois  in  his  veins.  So  did  "  Frawce," 
"  Jawnny,"  and  all  their  comrades  of  the  party. 

"The  three  pines  will  do,"  said  Tom,  as 
Baptiste  crouched. 

"  Good  luck  to-day  for  sure  !  "  cried  Baptiste, 
rising  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  three  pines  in  the 
foreground  of  the  distant  timbered  ridge.  He 
saw  that  the  line  did  indeed  run  clear  of  trees 
for  two  miles  along  one  side  of  the  long, 
narrow  beaver  meadow  or  swale. 

Baptiste  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  grinned 
agreeably  at  Tom  Dunscombe. 

"  De  boys  will  look  like  dey  's  all  got  de 
double  pay  in  deys'  pocket  when  dey  *s  see  dis 
open,"  said  Baptiste,  and  started  for  the  three 
pines  as  straight  as  a  bee. 

Tom  waited  to  get  from  the  chainmen  the 
distance  to  the  edge  of  the  wood.    They  came 


\' 


THE  RED-HEADED  WINDEGO. 


93 


on  the  heels  of  the  axemen,  and  all  capered  on 
their  snow-shoes  to  see  so  long  a  space  free 
from  cutting. 

It  was  now  two  o'clock ;  they  had  marched 
with  forty  pound  or  "  light "  packs  since  day- 
light, lunching  on  cold  pork  and  hard-tack  as 
they  worked ;  they  had  slept  cold  for  weeks  on 
brush  under  an  open  tent  pitched  over  a  hole 
in  the  snow ;  they  must  live  this  life  of  hard- 
ship and  huge  work  for  six  weeks  longer,  but 
they  hoped  to  get  twice  their  usual  eighty- 
cents-a-day  pay,  and  so  their  hearts  were  light 
and  jolly. 

But  Big  Baptiste,  now  two  hundred  yards  in 
advance,  swinging  along  in  full  view  of  the 
party,  stopped  with  a  scared  cry.  They  saw 
him  look  to  the  left  and  to  the  right,  and  over 
his  shoulder  behind,  like  a  man  who  expects 
mortal  attack  from  a  near  but  unknown  quarter. 

"What's  the  matter?"  shouted  Tom. 

Baptiste  went  forward  a  few  steps,  hesitated, 
Stopped,  turned,   and   fairly  ran  back  toward 


94 


THE  RED-HEADED  WtNDEGO, 


the  party.  As  he  came  he  continually  turned 
his  head  from  side  to  side  as  if  expecting  to 
see  some  dreadful  thing  following. 

The  men  behind  Tom  stopped.  Their  faces 
were  blanched.  They  looked,  too,  from  side 
to   side. 

"  Halt,  Mr.  Tom,  halt !  Oh,  monjee^  M'sieu, 
stop  1  "  said  Jawnny. 

Tom  looked  round  at  his  men,  amazed  at 
their  faces  of  mysterious  terror.  >-    . 

"What  on  earth  has  happened?  "  cried  he. 
;    Instead  of  answering,  the  men  simply  pointed 
to  Big  Baptiste,  who  was  soon  within   twenty 
yards. 

"  What  is  the  trouble,  Baptiste  ?  "asked  Tom. 

Baptiste's  face  was  the  hue  of  death.  As  he 
spoke  he  shuddered :  — 

"  Monjee^  Mr.  Tom,  we  '11  got  for  stop  de 
job!"       -  ,-■■':  -v    '  .  -    -  '.,;    - 

"  Stop  the  job !    Are  you  crazy?  " 

"  If  you  '11  ^ot  b'lieve  what  I  told,  den  you 
go'n'  see  for  .    i'se'f." 


THR  RED-FEADED  W!NDEGO. 


95 


"What  is  it?" 

« De  track,  seh."  '  > 

"  What  track  ?    Wolves  ?  "       ■ 

"  If  it  was  only  wolfs  1 " 

"  Confound  you  !  can't  you  say  what  it  is  ?  " 

"  Eet  's  de  —  It  ain't  safe  for  told  its  name 
out  loud,  for  dass  de  way  it  come  —  if  it 's  call 
by  its  name  1  " 

"  Windego,  eh  ?  "  said  Tom,  laughing. 

"  I  '11  know  its  track  jus'  as  quick  's  I  see  it." 

"  Do  you  mean  you  have  seen  a  Windego 
track?"  ^  ^        ■   •    ' 

"  Monjee^  seh,  dorCt  say  its  name  I  Let  us  go 
back,'  said  Jawnny.  "  Baptiste  was  at  Madores' 
shanty  with  us  when  it  took  Hermidas  Dubois." 
'  "  Yesseh.  That 's  de  way  I  '11  come  for 
know  de  track  soon  's  I  see  it,"  said  Baptiste. 
"  Before  den  I  mos'  don'  b'lieve  dere  was  any 
of  it.  But  ain't  it  take  Hermidas  Dubois  only 
last  New  Year's?" 

"  That  was  all  nonsense  about  Dubois.  I  '11 
bet  it  was  a  joke  to  scare  you  all." 


a 


96 


THE  RED-HEADED   WIND  EGO. 


"  Who 's  kill  a  man  for  a  joke  ?  "said  Baptiste. 

"  Did  you  see  Hermidas  Dubois  killed  ?  Did 
you  see  him  dead?  No  !  I  heard  all  about  it. 
All  you  know  is  that  he  went  away  on  New 
Year's  morning,  when  the  rest  of  the  men  were 
too  scared  to  leave  the  shanty,  because  some 
one  said  there  was  a  Windego  track  outside." 

"  Hermidas  never  come  back !  " 

"  I  '11  bet  he  went  away  home.  You  '11  find 
him  at  Saint  Agathe  in  the  spring.  You  can't 
be  such  fools  as  to  believe  in  Windegos." 

"  Don't  you  say  dat  name  some  more  I " 
yelled  Big  Baptiste,  now  /ierce  with  fright. 
"  Hain't  I  just  seen  de  track  ?  I  'm  go'n'  back, 
me,  if  I  don't  get  a  copper  of  pay  for  de  whole 
winter ! "  ' 

"  Wait  a  little  now,  Baptiste,"  said  Tom, 
alarmed  lest  his  party  should  desert  him  and 
the  job.  "  I  '11  soon  find  out  what 's  at  the 
bottom  of  the  track." 

"  Dere  's  blood  at  de  bottom  —  I  seen  it !  " 
said  Baptiste. 


\ 


n 


THE  RED-HEADED  H^WDEGO. 


97 


"  Well,  you  wait  till  /  go  and  see  it." 

"  No !  I  go  back,  me,"  said  Baptiste,  and 
started  up  the  slope  with  the  others  at  his  heels. 

"  Halt  1  Stop  there  !  Halt,  you  fools  1  Don't 
you  understand  that  if  there  was  any  such 
monster  it  would  as  easily  catch  you  in  one 
place  as  another?" 

The  men  went  on.    Tom  took  another  tone. 

"  Boys,  look  here  !  I  say,  are  you  going  to 
desert  me  like  cowards?"  " 

"  Hain't  goin'  for  desert  you,  Mr.  Tom,  no 
seh  !  "  said  Baptiste,  halting.  "  Honly  I  '11 
hain*  go  for  cross  de  track."  They  all  faced 
round. 

Tom  was  acquainted  with  a  considerable 
number  of  Windego  superstitions. 

"  There  *s  no  danger  unless  it  *s  a  fresh 
track,"  he  said.     "  Perhaps  it 's  an  old  one." 

"  Fresh  made  dis  mornin',"  said  Baptiste. 

**  Well,  wait  till  I  go  and  see  it.  You  're  all 
right,  you  know,  if  you .  don't  cross  it.  Is  n't 
that  the  idea?" 

1 


98 


THE  RED-BEADED   WINDEGO. 


"No,  seh.  Mr.  Humphreys  told  Madore 
'bout  dat.  Eef  somebody  cross  de  track  and 
don't  never  come  back,  den  de  magic  ain't  in 
de  track  no  more.  But  it 's  watchin',  watchin' 
all  round  to  catch  somebody  what  cross  its 
track ;  and  if  nobody  don't  cross  its  track  and 
get  catched,  den  de  —  de  Ting  mebby  get 
crazy  mad,  and  nobody  don'  know  what  it 's 
goin'  for  do.     Kill  every  person,  mebby." 

Tom  mused  over  this  information.  These 
men  had  all  been  in  Madore's  shanty ;  Madore 
was  under  Red  Dick  Humphreys;  Red  Dick 
was  Rory  Carmichael's  head  foreman ;  he  had 
sworn  to  stop  the  survey  by  hook  or  by  crook, 
and  this  vow  had  been  made  after  Tom  had 
hired  his  gang  from  among  those  scared  away 
from  Madore's  shanty.  Tom  thought  he  began 
to  understand  the  situation. 

"Just  wait  a  bit,  boys,"  he  said,  and  started. 


"You  ain't  surely  go' n'  to  cross  de  track?" 

cried  Baptiste. 

'.  '■  J 

"  Not  now,  anyway,"  said  Tom.     "  But  wait 

till  I  see  it." 

■               ,''    ■        .                                   '^' 

\^ 

i                            1                                                                         \ 

'A 

'             ■  ■     '■              -.       • 

'               .    .                                         ■             \ 

\                                                                         »                                                                                                                                \ 

THE  RED-HEADED  WIND  EGO. 


99 


When  he  reached  the  mysterious  track  it 
surprised  him  so  greatly  that  he  easily  forgave 
Baptiste's  fears. 

If  a  giant  having  ill-shaped  feet  as  long  as 
Tom's  snow-shoes  had  passed  by  in  moccasins, 
the  main  features  of  the  indentations  might 
have  been  produced.  But  the  marks  were  no 
deeper  in  the  snow  than  if  the  huge  moccasins 
had  been  worn  by  an  ordinary  man.  They 
were  about  five  and  a  half  feet  apart  from 
centres,  a  stride  that  no  human  legs  could  take 
at  a  walking  pace. 

Moreover,  there  were  on  the  snow  none  of 
the  dragging  marks  of  striding ;  the  gigantic 
feet  had  apparently  been  lifted  straight  up  clear 
of  the  snow,  and  put  straight  down. 

Strangest  of  all,  at  the  front  'f  each  print 
were  five  narrow  holes  which  suggesijd  that  the 
mysterious  creature  had  travelled  with  bare, 
claw-like  toes.  An  irregular  drip  or  squirt  of 
blood  went  along  the  middle  of  the  indenta- 
tions !  Nevertheless,  the  whole  thing  seemed  of 
human  devising. 


100 


THR  RRD-tfBADED  WtNDEGO. 


This  track,  Tom  reflected,  was  consistent 
with  the  Indian  superstition  that  Windegos  are 
monsters  who  take  on  or  relinquish  the  human 
form,  and  vary  their  size  at  pleasure.  He  per- 
ceived that  he  must  bring  the  maker  of  those 
tracks  promptly  to  book,  or  suffer  his  men  to 
desert  the  survey,  and  cost  him  his  whole 
winter's  work,  besides  making  him  a  laughing- 
stock in  the  settlements. 

The  young  fellow  made  his  decision  instantly. 
After  feeling  for  his  match-box  and  sheath- 
knife,  he  took  his  hatchet  from  his  sash,  and 
called  to  the  men. 

"Go  into  camp  and  wait  for  me  ! " 

Then  he  set  off, alongside  of  the  mysterious 
track  at  his  best  pace.  It  came  out  of  a  tangle 
of  alders  to  the  west,  and  went  into  such 
another  tangle  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  the 
east.  Tom  went  east.  The  men  watched  him 
with  horror. 

"  He  's  got  crazy,  looking  at  de  track,"  said 
Big  Baptiste,  "  for  that 's  the  way,  —  one  is 
enchanted,  —  he  must  follow." 


\ 


THE  RED-HEADED   WIND  EGO. 


lOI 


"  He  was  a  good  boss,"  said  Jawnny,  sadly. 

As  the  young  fellow  disappeared  in  the 
alders  the  men  looked  at  one  another  with  a 
certain  shame.  Not  a  sound  except  the  sough 
of  pines  from  the  neighboring  forest  was  heard. 
Though  the  sun  was  sinking  in  clear  blue,  the 
aspect  of  the  wilderness,  gray  and  white  and 
severe,  touched  the  impressionable  men  with 
deeper  melancholy.  They  felt  lonely,  master- 
less,  mean. 

"  He  was  a  good  boss,' '  said  Jawnny  again. 

"  Tort  Dieu  !  "  cried  Baptiste,  leaping  to  his 
feet.  "  It  *s  a  shame  to  desert  the  young  boss. 
I  don't  care ;  the  Windego  can  only  kill  me. 
I  'm  going  to  help  Mr.  Tom." 

"  Me  also,"  said  Jawnny.         : 

Then  all  wished  to  go.  But  after  some 
parley  it  was  agreed  that  the  others  should  wait 
for  the  portageurs,  who  were  likely  to  be  two 
miles  behind,  and  make  camp  for  the  night. 

Soon  Baptiste  and  Jawnny,  each  with  his  axe, 
started  diagonally  across  the  swale,  and  entered 
the  alders  on  Tom's  track. 


102 


THE  RED-HEADED   IVINDEGO. 


It  took  them  twenty  yards  through  the  alders, 
to  the  edge  of  a  warm  spring  or  marsh  about 
fifty  yards  wide.  This  open,  shallow  water  was 
completely  encircled  by  alders  that  came  down 
to  its  very  edge.  Tom's  snow-shoe  track  joined 
the  track  of  the  mysterious  monster  for  the  first 
time  on  the  edge  —  and  there  both  vanished  ! 

Baptiste  and  Jawnny  looked  at  the  place  with 
the  wildest  terror,  and  without  even  thinking  to 
search  the  deeply  indented  opposite  edges  of 
the  little  pool  for  a  reappearance  of  the  tracks, 
fled  back  to  the  party.  It  was  just  as  Red 
Dick  Humphreys  had  said;  just  as  they  had 
always  heard.  Tom,  like  Hermidas  Dubois, 
appeared  to  have  vanished  from  existence  the 
moment  he  stepped  on  the  Windego  track ! 


The  dimness  of  early  evening  was  in  the  red- 
pine  forest  through  which  Tom's  party  had 
passed  early  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  belated 
portageurs  were  tramping  along  the  line.  A 
man  with  a  red  head  had  been  long  crouching  in 


\ 


I  . 


THE  RED-HEADED   IVINDEGO. 


103 


some  cedar  bushes  to  the  east  of  the  "  blazed  " 
cutting.  When  he  had  watched  the  portageurs 
pass  out  of  sight,  he  stepped  over  upon  their 
track,  and  followed  it  a  short  distance. 

A  few  minutes  later  a  young  fellow,  over  six 
feet  high,  who  strongly  resembled  Tom  Duns- 
combe,  followed  the  red-headed  man. 

The  stranger,  suddenly  catching  sight  of  a 
flame  far  away  ahead  on  the  edge  of  the  beaver 
meadow,  stopped  and  fairly  hugged  himself. 

"  Camped,  by  jiminy  !  I  knowed  I  'd  fetch 
'em,"  was  the  only  remark  he  made. 

"  I  wish  Big  Baptiste  could  see  that  Windego 
laugh,"  thought  Tom  Dunscombe,  concealed 
behind  a  tree. 

After  reflecting  a  few  moments,  the  red- 
headed man,  a  wiry  little  fellow,  went  forward 
till  he  came  to  where  an  old  pine  had  recently 
fallen  across  the  track.  There  he  kicked  oft 
his  snow-shoes,  picked  them  up,  ran  along  the 
trunk,  jumped  into  the  snow  from  among  the 
branches,  put  on  his  snow-shoes,  and  started 


i 


I04 


THE  RED-HEADED   WINDEGO. 


northwestward.  His  new  track  could  not  be 
seen  from  the  survey  line.  ^ 

But  Tom  had  beheld  and  understood  the  pur- 
pose of  the  manoeuvre.  He  made  straight  for 
the  head  of  the  fallen  tree,  got  on  the  stranger's 
tracks  and  cautiously  followed  them,  keeping 
far  enough  behind  to  be  out  of  hearing  or 
sight.  '  J 

The  red-headed  stranger  went  toward  the 
wood  out  of  which  the  mysterious  track  of  the 
morning  had  come.  When  he  had  reached 
the  little  brush-camp  in  which  he  had  slept 
the  previous  night,  he  made  a  small  fire,  put  a 
small  tin  pot  on  it,  boiled  some  tea,  broiled  a 
venison  steak,  ate  his  supper,  had  several  good 
laughs,  took  a  long  smoke,  rolled  himself  round 
and  round  in  his  blanket,  and  went  to  sleep. 

Hours  passed  before  Tom  ventured  to  crawl 
forward  and  peer  into  the  brush  camp.  The 
red-headed  man  was  lying  on  his  face,  as  is  the 
custom  of  many  woodsmen.  His  capuchin  cap 
covered  his  red  head. 


THE  RED-HEADED   WINDEGO. 


I  OS 


Tom  Dunscombe  took  off  his  own  long  sash. 
When  the  red- headed  man  woke  up  he  found 
that  some  one  was  on  his  back,  holding  his 
head  firmly  down. 

Unable  to  extricate  his  arms  or  legs  from  his 
blankets,  the  red-headed  man  began,  to  utter 
fearful  threats.  Tom  said  not  one  word,  but 
diligently  wound  his  sash  round  his  prisoner's 
head,  shoulders,  and  arms.  ,. 

He  then  rose,  took  the  red-headed  man's 
own  "  tump-line,"  a  leather  strap  about  twelve 
feet  long,  which  tapered  from  the  middle  to 
both  ends,  tied  this  "firmly  round  the  angry  live 
mummy,  and  left  him  lying  on  his  face. 

Then,  collecting  his  prisoner's  axe,  snow- 
shoes,  provisions,  and  tin  pail,  Tom  started  with 
them  back  along  the  Windego  track  for  camp. 

Big  Baptiste  and  his  comrades  had  supped 
too  full  of  fears  to  go  to  sleep.  They  had 
built  an  enormous  fire,  because  Windegos  are 
reported,  in  Indian  circles,  to  share  with  wild 
beasts  the  dread  of  flames  and  brands.    Tom 


[o6 


THE  RED-HEADED   WINDEGO. 


II 


tt 


u 


Stole  quietly  to  within  fifty  yards  of  the  camp, 
and  suddenly  shouted  in  unearthly  fashion. 
The  men  sprang  up,  quaking. 

It 's  the  Windego  !  "  screamed  Jawnny. 
You  silly  fools  !  "  said  Tom,  coming  forward. 
**  Don't  you  know  my  voice  ?  Am  I  a  Windego  ?  " 

"  It 's  the  Windego,  for  sure ;  it 's  took  the 
shape  of  Mr.  Tom,  after  eatin'  him,"  cried  Big 
Baptiste. 

Tom  laughed  so  uproariously  at  this  that  the 
other  men  scouted  the  idea,  though  it  was  quite 
in  keeping  with  their  information  concerning 
Wind  egos'  habits.  * 

Then  Tom  came  in  and  gave  a  full  and 
particular  account  of  the  Windego's  pursuit, 
capture,  and  present  predicament. 

"  But  how  'd  he  make  de  track?  "  they  asked. 

"  He  had  two  big  old  snow-shoes,  stuffed 
with  spruce  tips  underneath,  and  covered  with 
dressed  deerskin.  He  had  cut  off  the  back 
ends  of  them.  You  shall  see  them  to-morrow. 
I  found  them  down  yonder  where  he  had  left 


THE  RED-HEADED   WINDEGO. 


107 


them  after  crossing  the  warm  spring.  He  had 
five  bits  of  sharp  round  wood  going  down  in 
front  of  them.  He  must  have  stood  on  them  one 
after  the  other,  and  hfted  the  back  one  every 
time  with  the  pole  he  carried.  I  've  got  that, 
too.  The  blood  was  from  a  deer  he  had  run  down 
and  killed  in  the  snow.  He  carried  the  blood 
in  his  tin  pail,  and  sprinkled  it  behind  him. 
He  must  have  run  out  our  line  long  ago  with  a 
compass,  so  he  knew  where  it  would  go.  But 
come,  let  us  go  and  see  if  it 's  Red  Dick 
Humphreys." 

Red  Dick  proved  to  be  the  prisoner.  He 
had  become  quite  philosophic  while  waiting  for 
his  captor  to  come  back.  When  unbound  he 
grinned  pleasantly,  and  remarked  :  — 

"  You  're  Mr.  Dunscombe,  eh  ?  Well,  you  *re 
a  smart  young  feller,  Mr.  Dunscombe.  There 
ain't  another  man  on  the  Ottaway  that  could  'a' 
done  that  trick  on  me.  Old  Dan  McEachran 
will  make  your  fortun*  for  this,  and  I  don't 
be^jrudge  it.     You  're   a  man  —  that 's  so.     If 


• 


^     % 


ill 


'! 


io8 


THE  RED-HEADED   IVINDEGO. 


ever  I  hear  any  feller  saying  to  the  contrayry 
he 's  got  to  lick  Red  Dick  Kumphreys." 

And  he  told  them  the  particulars  of  his 
practical  joke  in  making  a  Windego  track  round 
Madore's  shanty. 

"Hermidas  Dubois?  —  oh,  he*s  all  right," 
said  Red  Dick.  "  He  's  at  home  at  St.  Agathe. 
Man,  he  helped  me  to  fix  up  that  Windego 
track  at  Mad  ore's ;  but,  by  criminy  !  the  look 
of  it  scared  him  so  he  would  n't  cross  it  him- 
self.    It  was  a  holy  terror !  " 


V 


THE  SHINING  CROSS  OF  RIGAUD. 

X«  \ 

WHEN    Mini  was  a  fortnight    old    his 
mother  wrapped  her  head  and  shoul- 
ders in  her  ragged  shawl,  snatched  him  from 

the  family  litter  of  straw,  and,  with  a  volley  of 

cautionary  objurgations  to  his  ten  brothers  and 

sisters,    strode     angrily    forth    into    the    raw 

November  weather.     She  went  down  the  hill 

to  the  edge  of  the  broad,  dark  Ottawa,  where 

thin  slices  of  ice  were  swashing  together.   There 

sat  a  hopeless-looking  little  man  at  the  clumsy 

oars  of  a  flat-bottomed  boat. 

"The  little  one's  feet  are  out,"  said  the  man. 

"  So  much  the  better !  For  what  was 
another  sent  us?"   cried   Mini's   mother. 

"  But  the  little  one  must  be  baptized,"  said 
the  father,  with  mild  expostulation. 


no 


THE  SHimNG  CROSS  OF  RIGA  UD. 


"  Give  him  to  me,  then,"  and  the  man  took 
off  his  own  ragged  coat.  Beneath  it  he  had 
nothing  except  an  equally  ragged  guernsey, 
and  the  wind  was  keen.  The  woman  surren- 
dered the  child  carelessly,  and  drawing  her 
shawl  closer,  sat  frowning  moodily  in  the  stern. 
Mini's  father  wrapped  him  in  the  wretched 
garment,  carefully  laid  the  infant  on  the  pea- 
straw  at  his  feet,  and  rowed  wearily  away. 

They  took  him  to  the  gray  church  on  the 
farther  shore,  whose  tall  cross  glittered  coldly 
in  the  wintry  sun.  There  Madame  Lajeunesse, 
the  skilful  washerwoman,  angry  to  be  taken  so 
long  from  her  tubs,  and  Bonhomme  Hamel, 
who  never  did  anything  but  fish  for  barbotes^ 
met  them.  These  highly  respectable  connec- 
tions of  Mini's  mother  had  a  disdain  for  her 
inferior  social  status,  and  easily  made  it  under- 
stood that  nothing  but  a  Christian  duty  would 
have  brought  them  out.  Where  else,  indeed, 
could  the  friendless  infant  have  found  sponsors? 
It  was   disgraceful,   they  remarked,   that   the 


THE  SHtNJNO  CROSS  OP  RIGAUD. 


Ill 


custom  of  baptism  at  three  days  old  should 
have  been  violated.  While  they  answered  for 
Mini's  spiritual  development  he  was  quiet, 
neither  crying  nor  smiling  till  the  old  priest 
crossed  his  brow.  Then  he  smiled,  and  that, 
Bonhomme  Hamel  remarked,  was  a  blessed 
sign. 

"  Now  he  's  sure  of  heaven  when  he  does 
die ! "  cried  Mini's  mother,  getting  home 
again,  and  tossed  him  down  on  the  straw,  for 
a  conclusion  to  her  sentence. 

But  the  child  lived,  as  if  by  miracle.  Hunger, 
cold,  dirt,  abuse,  still  left  him  a  feeble  vitality. 
At  six  years  old  his  big  dark  eyes  wore  so  sad 
a  look  that  mothers  of  merry  children  often 
stopped  to  sigh  over  him,  frightening  the  child, 
for  he  did  not  understand  sympathy.  So  un- 
responsive and  dumb  was  he  that  they  called 
him  half-witted.  Three  babies  younger  than 
he  had  died  by  then,  and  the  fourth  was  little 
Ang^lique.  They  said  she  would  be  very  like 
Mini,  and  there  was  reason  wliy  in  her  wretched 


I 


I 


112 


THE  SHINING  CROSS  OF  RIGAUD. 


infancy.  Mini's  was  the  only  love  she  ever 
knew.  When  she  saw  the  sunny  sky  his  weak 
arms  carried  her,  and  many  a  night  he  drew 
over  her  the  largest  part  of  his  deplorable 
coverings.  She,  too,  was  strangely  silent.  For 
days  long  they  lay  together  on  the  straw,  quietly 
suffering  what  they  had  known  from  the  begin- 
ning.    It  was  something  near  starvation. 

When  Mini  was  eight  years  old  his  mother 
sent  him  one  day  to  beg  food  from  Madame 
Leclaire,  whose  servant  she  had  been  long  ago. 

"It's  Lucile's  Mini,"  said  Madame,  taking 
him  to  the  door  of  the  cosey  sitting-room,  where 
Monsieur  sat  at  solitaire. 

**  Mon  DieUy  did  one  ever  see  such  a  child  !  " 
cried  the  retired  notary.  "  For  the  love  of 
Heaven,  feed  him  well,  Marie,  before  you  let 
him   go  I  " 

But  Mini  could  scarcely  eat.  He  trembled 
at  the  sight  of  so  much  food,  and  chose  a  crust 
as  the  only  thing  familiar. 

"  Eat,  my  poor  child.  Have  no  fear,"  said 
Madame. 


I  ' 


THE  SHINING  CROSS  OF  RIGAUD. 


"3 


*' But  Ang^lique,"  said  he. 

"Ang^lique?     Is  it  the  baby  ?  " 

"Yes,  Madame,  if  I  might  have  something 
for  her." 

"  Poor  little  loving  boy,"  said  Madame, 
tears  in  her  kind  eyes.  But  Mini  did  not  cry ; 
he  had  known  so  many  things  so  much  sadder. 

When  Mini  reached  home  his  mother  seized 
the  basket.  Her  wretched  children  crowded 
around.  There  were  broken  bread  and  meat 
in  plenty.  "  Here  —  here  —  and  here  1  "  She 
distributed  crusts,  and  chose  a  well-fleshed 
bone  for  her  own  teeth.  Ang^lique  could  not 
walk,  and  did  not  cry,  so  got  nothing.  Mini, 
however,  went  to  her  with  the  tin  pail  before 
his  mother  noticed  it. 

"  Bring  that  back !  "  she  shouted. 

"Quick,  baby !  "  cried  Mini,  holding  it  that 
Ang^lique  might  drink.  But  the  baby  was  not 
quick  enough.  Her  mother  seized  the  pail 
and  tasted;  the  milk  was  still  almost  warm. 
"  Good,"  said  she,  reaching  for  her  shawl. 

8 


I  ! 


! '  iHi 


114 


THE  StimtNG  CROSS  OF  RIGAUD. 


"  For  the  love  of  God,  mother  !  "  cried  Mini, 
"Madame  said  it  was  for  Ang^lique."  He 
knew  too  well  what  new  millc  would  trade  for. 
The  woman  laughed  and  flung  on  her  sliawl. 

"  Only  a  little,  then ;  only  a  cupful,"  cried 
Mini,  clutching  her,  struggling  weakly  to  re- 
strain her.    "Only a  little  cupful  for Ang^lique." 

**  Give  her  bread  I  "  She  struck  him  so  that 
he  reeled,  and  left  the  cabin.  Then  Mini 
cried,  but  not  for  the  blow. 

He  placed  a  soft  piece  of  bread  and  a  thin 
shred  of  meat  in  Ang^lique's  thin  little  hand, 
but  she  could  not  eat,  she  was  so  weak.  The 
elder  children  sat  quietly  devouring  their  food, 
each  ravenously  eying  that  of  the  others.  But 
there  was  so  much  that  when  the  father  came 
he  also  could  eat.  He,  too,  offered  Ang^lique 
bread.  Then  Mini  lifted  his  hand  which  held 
hers,  and  showed  beneath  the  food  she  had 
refused. 

"  If  she  had  milk  !  "  said  the  boy. 

"  My  God,  if  I  could  get  some,"  groaned  the 


THE  SHINING  CROSS  OF  RIGA  UD. 


"5 


mail,  and  stopped  as  a  shuffling  and  tumbling 
was  heard  at  the  door. 

"  She  is  very  drunk,"  said  the  man,  without 
amazement.  He  helped  her  in,  and,  too  far 
gone  to  abuse  them,  she  soon  lay  heavily 
breathing  near  the   child  she   had   murdered. 

Mini  woke  in  the  pale  morning  thinking 
Angdique  very  cold  in  his  arms,  and,  behold, 
she  was  free  from  all  the  suffer:  ng  forever.  So 
he  could  not  cry,  though  the  mother  wept  when 
she  awoke,  and  shrieked  at  his  tearlessness  as 
hardhearted. 

Little  Angdlique  had  been  rowed  across  the 
great  river  for  the  last  time ;  night  was  come 
again,  and  Mini  thought  he  must  die ;  it  could 
not  be  that  he  should  be  made  to  live  without 
Ang^lique  !  Then  a  wondrous  thing  seemed  to 
happen.  Little  Ang^lique  had  come  back. 
He  could  not  doubt  it  next  morning,  for,  with 
the  slowly  lessening  glow  from  the  last  brands 
of  fire  had  not  her  face  appeared  ?  —  then  her 
form  ?  —  and  lo  !  she  was  closely  held  in  the 


'i\ 


ii6 


THE  SHINING  CROSS  OF  RIGAUD. 


arms  of  the  mild  Mother  whom  Mini  knew 
from  her  image  in  the  church,  only  she  smiled 
more  sweetly  now  in  the  hut.  Little  Ang^lique 
had  learned  to  smile,  too,  which  was  most 
wonderful  of  all  to  Mini.  In  their  heavenly 
looks  was  a  meaning  of  which  he  felt  almost 
aware;  a  mysterious  happiness  was  coming 
close  and  closer;  with  the  sense  of  ineffable 
touches  near  his  brow,  the  boy  dreamed. 
Nothing  more  did  Mini  know  till  his  mother's 
voice  woke  him  in  the  morning.  He  sprang 
up  with  a  cry  of  "  Ang^lique,"  and  gazed  round 
upon  the  familiar  squalor. 


// 


II. 


From  the  summit  of  Rigaud  Mountain  a 
mighty  cross  flashes  sunlight  all  over  the  great 
plain  of  Vaudreuil.  The  devout  habitanty 
ascending  from  vale  to  hill-top  in  the  county 
of  Deux  Montagnes,  bends  to  the  sign  he  sees 
across  the  forest  leagues  away.     Far  off  on  the 


I 


THE  SHINING  CROSS  OF  RtGAUD. 


117 


brown  Ottaw  ',  beyond  the  Cascades  of  Carillon 
and  the  Chute  h.  Rlondeau,  the  keen-eyed 
voyageur  catches  its  gleam,  and,  for  gladness 
to  be  nearing  the  familiar  mountain,  more 
cheerily  raises  the  chanson  he  loves.  Near 
St.  Placide  the  early  ploughman  —  while  yet 
mist  wreathes  the  fields  and  before  the  native 
Rossignol  has  fairly  begun  his  plaintive  flourishes 
—  watches  the  high  cross  of  Rigaud  for  the 
first  glint  that  shall'  tell  him  of  the  yet  unrisen 
sun.  The  wayfarer  marks  his  progress  by  the 
bearing  of  that  great  cross,  the  hunter  looks  to 
it  for  an  unfailing  landmark,  the  weatherwise 
farmer  prognosticates  from  its  appearances. 
The  old  watch  it  dwindle  from  sight  at  evening 
with  long  thoughts  of  the  well-beloved  vanished, 
who  sighed  to  its  vanishing  through  vanished 
years;  the  dying  turn  to  its  beckoning  radi- 
ance ;  happy  is  the  maiden  for  whose  bridal  it 
wears  brightness ;  blessed  is  the  child  thought 
to  be  that  holds  out  tiny  hands  for  the  glitter- 
ing cross   as   for  a  star.     Even   to   the   most 


ihi; 


11 


fl 


.it8 


THE  SHINING  CROSS  OF  RIGAUD. 


f 


m 


\\ 


worldly  it  often  seems  flinging  beams  of  heaven, 
and  to  all  who  love  its  shining  that  is  a  dark 
day  when  it  yields  no  reflection  of  immortal 
meaning. 

To  Mini  the  Cross  of  Rigaud  had  as  yet 
been  no  more  than  an  indistinct  glimmering, 
so  far  from  it  did  he  live  and  so  dulled  was  he 
by  his  sufferings.  It  promised  him  no  immortal 
joys,  for  how  was  he  to  conceive  of  heaven 
except  as  a  cessation  of  weariness,  starvation, 
and  pain  ?  Not  tiU  Ang^lique  had  come  in  the 
vision  did  he  gain  certainty  that  in  heaven  she 
would  smile  on  him  always  from  the  mild 
Mother's  arms.  As  days  and  weeks  passed 
without  that  dream's  return,  his  imagination  was 
ever  the  more  possessed  by  it.  Though  the 
boy  looked  frailer  than  ever,  people  often 
remarked  with  amazement  how  his  eyes  wore 
some   unspeakable   happiness. 

Now  it  happened  that  one  sunny  day  after 
rain  Mini  became  aware  that  his  eyes  were 
flxed  on  the  Cross  of  Rigaud.     He  could  not 


.i 


THE  SHINING  CROSS  OF  RIGA  UD. 


119 


make  out  its  form  distinctly,  but  it  appeared  to 
thrill  toward  him.  Under  his  intent  watching 
the  misty  cross  seemed  gradually  to  become  the 
centre  of  such  a  light  as  had  enwrapped  the 
figures  of  his  dream.  While  he  gazed,  expect- 
ing his  vision  of  the  night  to  appear  in  broad 
day  on  the  far  summit,  the  light  extended, 
changed,  rose  aloft,  assumed  clear  tints,  and 
shifted  quickly  to  a  great  rainbow  encircling 
the  hill. 

Mini  belie\ed  it  a  token  to  him.  That 
Ang^lique  had  been  there  by  the  cross  the 
little  dreamer  doubted  not,  and  the  transfigura- 
tion to  that  arch  of  glory  had  some  meaning 
that  his  soul  yearned  to  apprehend.  The  cross 
drew  his  thoughts  miraculously ;  for  days  there- 
after he  dwelt  with  its  shining ;  more  and  more 
it  was  borne  in  on  him  that  he  could  always 
see  dimly  the  outline  of  little  Ang^lique's  face 
there ;  sometimes,  staring  very  steadily  for 
minutes  together,  he  could  even  believe  that 
she  beckoned  and  smiled. 


hi 


19 


ii 


I20 


THE  SHINING  CROSS  OF  RIGA  UD. 


n 


Is  Ang^lique  really  there,  father?"  he 
asked  one  day,  looking  toward  the  hill-top. 

"Yes,  there,"  answered  his  father,  thinking 
the  boy  meant  heaven. 

"  I  will  go  to  her,  then,"  said  Mini  to  his 
heart. 


Birds  were  not  stirring  when  Mini  stepped 
from  the  dark  cabin  into  gray  dawn,  with  firm 
resolve  to  join  Ang^lique  on  the  summit.  The 
Ottawa,  with  whose  flow  he  went  toward  Rigaud, 
was  solemnly  shrouded  in  motionless  mist,  which 
began  to  roll  slowly  during  the  first  hour  of  his 
journey.  Lifting,  drifting,  clinging,  ever  thinner 
and  more  pervaded  by  sunlight,  it  was  drawn 
away  so  that  the  unruffled  flood  reflected  a 
sky  all  blue  when  he  had  been  two  hours  on 
the  road.  But  Mini  took  no  note  of  the  river's 
beauty.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  cloudy  hill- 
top, beyond  which  the  sun  was  climbing.  As 
yet  he  could  see  nothing  of  the  cross,  nor  of 
his  vision ;  yet  the  world  had  never  seemed  so 


THE  SHINING  CROSS  OF  RIGAUD.         121 

glad,  nor  his  heart  so  light  with  joy.  Habitants, 
in  their  rattling  caleches,  were  amazed  by  the 
glow  in  the  face  of  a  boy  so  ragged  and  for- 
lorn. Some  told  afterward  how  they  had  half 
doubted  the  reality  of  his  rags ;  for  might  not 
one,  if  very  pure  at  heart,  have  been  privileged 
to  see  such  garments  of  apparent  meanness 
change  to  raiment  of  angelic  texture?  Such 
things  had  been,  it  was  said,  and  certainly  the 
boy's  face  was  a  marvel. 

His  look  was  ever  upward  to  where  fibrous 
clouds  shifted  slowly,  or  packed  to  level  bands 
of  mist  half  concealing  Rigaud  Hill,  as  the  sun 
wheeled  higher,  till  at  last,  in  mid-sky,  it  flung 
rays  that  trembled  on  the  cross,  and  gradually 
revealed  the  holy  sign  outlined  in  upright  and 
arms.  Mini  shivered  with  an  awe  of  expecta- 
tion ;  but  no  nimbus  was  disclosed  which  his 
imagination  could  shape  to  glorious  significance. 
Yet  he  went  rapturously  onward,  firm  in  the 
belief  that  up  there  he  must  see  Ang^lique  face 
to  face. 


I  J 


■\ 


',:  m 


1    ■  !f 

I 


122 


THE  SHINING  CROSS  OF  RIGA  UD. 


l«-i 


hi 


I** 


As  he  journeyed  the  cross  gradually  lessened 
in  height  by  disappearance  behind  the  nearer 
trees,  till  only  a  spot  of  light  was  left,  which 
suddenly  was  blotted  out  too.  Mini  drew  a 
deep  breath,  and  became  conscious  of  the  great- 
ness of  the  hill,  —  a  towering  mass  of  brown 
rock,  half  hidden  by  sombre  pines  and  the 
delicate  greenery  of  birch  and  poplar.  But 
soon,  because  the  cross  7vas  hidden,  he  could 
figure  it  all  the  more  gloriously,  and  entertain 
all  the  more  luminously  the  belief  that  there  were 
heavenly  presences  awaiting  him.  He  pressed 
on  with  all  his  speed,  and  began  to  ascend  the 
mountain  early  in  the  afternoon. 

"Higher,"  said  the  women  gathering  pearly- 
bloomed  blueberries  on  the  steep  hillside. 
"  Higher,"  said  the  path,  ever  leading  the  tired 
boy  upward  from  plateau  to  plateau,  —  "  higher, 
to  the  vision  and  the  radiant  space  about  the 
shining  cross  !  "  • 

Faint  with  hunger,  worn  with  fatigue,  in  the 
half-trance  of  physical   exhaustion.    Mini   still 


m 


THE  SHINING  CROSS  OF  RIGAUD. 


123 


"•! 


dragged  himself  upward  through  the  afternoon. 
At  last  he  knew  he  stood  on  the  summit  level 
very  near  the  cross.  There  the  child,  awed  by 
the  imminence  of  what  he  had  sought,  halted 
to  control  the  rapturous,  fearful  trembling  of  his 
heart.  Would  not  the  heavens  surely  open? 
What  words  would  Ang^lique  first  say  ?  Mheii 
again  he  went  swiftly  forward  through  the  trees 
to  the  edge  of  the  little  cleared  space.  There 
he  stood  dazed. 

The  cross  was  revealed  to  him  at  a  few 
yards'  distance.  With  woful  disillusionment 
Mini  threw  himself  face  downward  on  the  rock, 
and  wept  hopelessly,  sorely;  wept  and  wept, 
till  his  sobs  became  fainter  than  the  up-borne 
long  notes  of  a  hermit-thrush  far  below  on  the 
edge  of  the  plain. 

A'  tall  mast,  with  a  shorter  at  right  angles, 
both  covered  by  tin  roofing-plates,  held  on  by 
nails  whence  rust  had  run  in  streaks,  —  that  was 
the  shining  Cross  of  Rigaud  !  Fragments  of 
newspaper,  crusts   of  bread,   empty   tin   cans, 


I 


.^Boaml 


II::;.- 


124 


7'HE  SHINING  CROSS  OF  RIGA  UD, 


broken  bottles,  the  relics  of  many  picnics  scat- 
tered widely  about  the  foot  of  the  cross ;  rude 
initial  letters  cut  deeply  into  its  butt  where  the 
tin  had  been  torn  away ;  —  these  had  Mini  seen. 
The  boy  ceased  to  move.  Shadows  stole 
slowly  lengthening  over  the  Vaudreuil  cham- 
paign ;  the  sun  swooned  down  in  a  glamour  of 
'  painted  clouds;  dusk  covered  from  sight  the 
yellows  and  browns  and  greens  of  the  August 
fields ;  birds  stilled  with  the  deepening  night ; 
Rigaud  Mountain  loomed  from  the  plain,  a 
dark  long  mass  under  a  flying  and  waning 
moon;  stars  came  out  from  the  deep  spaces 
overhead,  and  still  Mini  lay  where  he  had 
wept. 


LITTLE  BAPTISTE. 

A   STORY  OF   THE   OTTAWA   RIVER. 

MA'AME  BAFnSTE  LAROCQUE  peered 
again  into  her  cupboard  and  her  flour 
barrel,  as  though  she  might  have  been  mistaken 
in  her  inspection  twenty  minutes  earlier. 

"  No,  there  is  nothing,  nothing  at  all !  "  said 
she  to  her  old  mother-in-law.  "  And  no  more 
trust  at  the  store.  Monsieur  Conolly  was  too 
cross  when  I  went  for  corn- meal  yesterday.  For 
sure,   Baptiste   stays   very  long  at   the   shanty 

this  year." 

"  Fear  nothing,  Delima,"  answered  the  bright- 
eyed  old  woman.  "  The  good  God  will  send  a 
breakfast  for  the  little  ones,  and  for  us.  In 
seventy  years  I  do  not  know  Him  to  fail  once, 
my  daughter.     Baptiste  may  be  back  to-morrow, 


II 


ii 


f 
J  I 


■14 


126 


LITTLE  BAPTISTE. 


\ 


and  with  more  money  for  staying  so  long,  No, 
no ;  fear  not,  Delima !  Le  bon  Dieu  manages 
all  for  the  best." 

"That  is  true;  for  so  I  have  heard  always," 
answered  Delima,  with  conviction ;  "  but  some- 
times le  bon  Dieu  requires  one's  inside  to  pray 
very  loud.  Certainly  I  trust,  like  you,  Meniere  ; 
but  it  would  be  pleasant  if  He  would  send  the 
food  the  day  before." 

"  Ah,  you  are  too  anxious,  like  little  Baptiste 
here,"  and  the  old  woman  glanced  at  the  boy 
sitting  by  the  cradle.  "  Young  folks  did  not 
talk  so  when  I  was  little.  Then  we  did  not 
think  there  was  danger  in  trusting  Monsieur  le 
Cur^w\\en  he  told  us  to  take  no  heed  of  the 
morrow.  But  now !  to  hear  them  talk,  one 
might  think  they  had  never  heard  of  le  bon 
Dieu.  The  young  people  think  too  much,  for 
sure.  Trust  in  the  good  God,  I  say.  Breakfast 
and  dinner  and  supper  too  we  shall  all  have 
to-morrow." 

"  Yes,  Memerc^^  replied  the  boy,  who  was 


LITTLE  BAPTISTE, 


P  ( 


127 


called  little  Baptiste  to  distinguish  him  from  his 
father.  "  Z/'  bon  Dicu  will  send  an  excellent 
breakfast,  sure  enough,  if  I  get  up  very  early, 
and  find  some  good  dore  (pickerel)  and  catfish 
on  the  night-lii^e.  But  if  I  did  not  bait  the 
hooks,  what  then?  Well,  I  hope  there  will  be 
more  to-morrow  than  this  morning,  anyway." 

**  There  were  enough,"  said  the  old  woman, 
severely.  "  Have  we  not  had  plenty  all  day, 
Delima?" 

Delima  made  no  answer.  She  was  in  doubt 
about  the  plenty  which  her  mother-in-law  spoke 
of.  She  wondered  whether  small  Andr6  and 
Odillon  and  'Toinette,  whose  heavy  breathing 
she  could  hear  through  the  thin  partition,  would 
have  been  sleeping  so  peacefully  had  little 
Baptiste  not  divided  his  share  among  them  at 
supper-time,  with  the  excuse  that  he  did  not 
feel  very  well? 

Delima  was  young  yet,  —  though  little  Baptiste 
was  such  a  big  boy,  —  and  would  have  rested 
fully  on  the  positively  expressed  trust  of  her 


i 


m 


"p. 


■11 


\ 


%\ 


)m 


I 


J 


128 


LITTLE  BAPTISTS. 


mother-in-law,  in  spite  of  the  empty  flour  barrel, 
if  she  had  not  suspected  little  Baptiste  of  sitting 
there  hungry. 

However,  he  was  such  a  strange  boy,  she 
soon  reflected,  that  perhaps  going  empty  did 
not  make  him  feel  bad  1  Little  Baptiste  was  so 
decided  in  his  ways,  made  what  in  others  would 
have  been  Hucrifices  so  much  as  a  matter  of 
course,  and  was  so  much  disgusted  on  being 
offered  credit  or  sympathy  in  consequence,  that 
his  mother,  not  being  able  to  understand  him, 
was  not  a  little  afraid  of  him. 

He  was  not  very  formidable  in  appearance, 
however,  that  clumsy  boy  oi  fourteen  or  so, 
whose  big  freckled,  good  face  was  now  bent 
over  the  cradle  where  la  petite  Seraphine  lay 
smiling  in  her  sleep,  with  soft  little  fingers 
clutched  round  his  rough  one. 

"  For  sure,"  said  Delima,  observing  the  baby's 
smile,  **  the  good  angels  are  very  near.  I  won- 
der what  they  are  telling  her?  " 

"  Something  about  her  father,  of  course ;  for 


LITTLE  BAPTISTS. 


129 


SO  I  have  always  heard  it  is  when  the  infants 
smile  in  sleep,"  answered  the  old  woman. 

Little  Baptiste  rose  impatiently  and  went  in- 
to the  sleeping-room.  Often  the  simplicity  and 
sentimentality  of  his  mother  and  grandmother 
gave  him  strange  pangs  at  heart ;  they  seemed 
to  be  the  children,  while  he  felt  very  old.  They 
were  always  looking  for  wonderful  things  to 
happen,  and  expecting  the  saints  and  le  bon 
Dieu  to  help  the  family  out  of  difficulties  that 
little  Baptiste  saw  no  way  of  overcoming  with- 
out the  work  which  was  then  so  hard  to  get. 
His  mother's  remark  about  the  angels  talking  to 
little  Seraphine  pained  him  so  much  that  he 
would  have  cried  had  he  not  felt  compelled  to 
be  very  much  of  a  man  during  his  father's 
absence. 

If  he  had  been  asked  to  name  the  spirit 
hovering  about,  he  would  have  mentioned  a 
very  wicked  one  as  personified  in  John  Conolly, 
the  village  storekeeper,  the  vampire  of  the  little 
hamlet  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant.      Conolly 

9 


'%  itj 


n 


130 


LITTLE  BAPTISTS. 


ii_L- 


owned  the  tavern  too,  and  a  sawmill  up  river, 
and  altogether  was  a  very  rich,  powerful,  and 
dreadful  person  in  little  Baptiste's  view.  Worst 
of  all,  he  practically  owned  the  cabin  and  lot  of 
the  Larocques,  for  he  had  made  big  Baptiste 
give  him  a  bill  of  sale  of  the  place  as  security 
for  groceries  to  be  advanced  to  the  family  while 
its  head  was  away  in  the  shanty;  and  that 
afternoon  Conolly  had  said  to  little  Baptiste 
that  the  credit  had  been  exhausted,  and  more. 

"  No ;  you  can't  get  any  pork,"  said  the  store- 
keeper. "  Don't  your  mother  know  that,  after 
me  sending  her  away  when  she  wanted  corn- 
meal  yesterday  ?  Tell  her  she  don't  get  another 
cent's  worth  here." 

"For  why  not?  My  fader  always  he  pay," 
said  the  indignant  boy,  trying  to  talk  English. 

*'  Yes,  indeed  !  Well,  he  ain't  paid  this  time. 
How  do  I  know  what 's  happened  to  him,  as  he 
ain't  back  from  the  shanty  ?  Tell  you  what : 
I  'm  going  to  turn  you  all  out  if  your  mother 
don't  pay  rent  in  advance  for  the  shanty 
to-morrow,  —  four  dollars  a  month." 


LITTLE  BAPTISiE: 


131 


"  What  you  talkin'  so  for?  We  doan'  goin' 
pay  no  rent  for  our  own  house  !  " 

"  You  doan'  goin'  to  own  no  house,"  answered 
Conolly,  mimicking  the  boy.  "The  house  is 
mine  any  time  I  Hke  to  say  so.  If  the  store 
bill  ain't  paid  to-night,  out  you  go  to-morrow,  or 
else  pay  rent.  Tell  your  mother  that  for  me. 
Mosey  off  now.  *  MarchCy  done  !  '  There  's 
no  other  way." 

Little  Baptiste  had  not  told  his  mother  of 
this  terrible  threat,  for  what  was  the  use  ?  She 
had  no  money.  He  knew  that  she  would  begin 
weeping  and  wailing,  with  small  Andr6  and 
Odillon  as  a  puzzled,  excited  chorus,  with 
'Toinette  and  Seraphine  adding  those  baby 
cries  that  made  little  Baptiste  want  to  cry  him- 
self; with  his  grandmother  steadily  advising,  in 
the  din,  that  patient  trust  in  le  bon  Dieu  which 
he  could  not  always  entertain,  though  he  felt 
very  wretched  that  he  could  not. 

Moreover,  he  desired  to  spare  his  mother 
and  grandmother  as   long  as  possible.     "  Let 


132 


LITTLE  BAPTISTS. 


them  have  their  good  night's  sleep,"  said  he 
to  himself,  with  such  thoughtfulness  and  pity 
as  a  merchant  might  feel  in  concealing  im- 
minent bankruptcy  from  his  family.  He  knew 
there  was  but  one  chance  remaining,  — that 
his  father  might  come  home  during  the  night 
or  next  morning,  with  his  winter's  wages. 

Big  Baptiste  had  "  gone  up  "  for  Rewbell  the 
jobber ;  had  gone  in  November,  to  make  logs 
in  the  distant  Petawawa  woods,  and  now  the 
month  was  May.  The  "  very  magnificent " 
pig  he  had  salted  down  before  going  away  had 
been  eaten  long  ago.  My !  what  a  time  it 
seemed  now  to  little  Baptiste  since  that  pig- 
killing  !  How  good  the  boudin  (the  blood- 
puddings)  had  been,  and  the  liver  and  tender 
bits,  and  what  a  joyful  time  they  had  had  ! 
The  barrelful  of  salted  pike  and  catfish  was  all 
gone  too,  —  which  made  the  fact  that  fish  were 
not  biting  well  this  year  very  sad  indeed. 

Now  on  top  of  all  these  troubles  this  new 
danger   of  being  turned  out  on  the  roadside  ! 


LITTLE  BAPTISTE. 


133 


For  where  are  they  to  get  four  dollars,  or  two, 
or  one  even,  to  stave  Conolly  off  ?  Certainly 
his  father  was  away  too  long ;  but  surely,  surely, 
thought  the  boy,  he  would  get  back  in  time  to 
save  his  home  !  Then  he  remembered  with 
horror,  and  a  feeling  of  being  disloyal  to  his 
father  for  remembering,  that  terrible  day,  three 
years  before,  when  big  Baptiste  had  come  back 
from  his  winter's  work  drunk,  and  without  a 
dollar,  having  been  robbed  while  on  a  spree  in 
Ottawa.  If  that  were  the  reason  of  his  father's 
delay  now,  ah,  then  there  would  be  no  hope, 
unless  le  bon  Dieu  should  indeed  work  a  miracle 
for  them  ! 

While  the  boy  thought  over  the  situation  with 
fear,  his  grandmother  went  to  her  bed,  and  soon 
afterward  Delima  took  the  little  Seraphine's 
cradle  into  the  sleeping-room.  That  left  little 
Baptiste  so  lonely  that  he  could  not  sit  still ;  nor 
did  he  see  any  use  of  going  to  lie  awake  in  bed 
by  Andr6  and  Odillon. 

So  he  left  the  cabin  softly,  and  reaching  the 


;.a 


vJSSf 


?i 


134 


LITTLE  BAPTISTE. 


river  with  a  few  steps,  pushed  off  his  flat- 
bottomed  boat,  and  was  carried  smartly  up 
stream  by  the  shore  eddy.  It  soon  gave  him 
to  the  current,  and  then  he  drifted  idly  down 
under  the  bright  moon,  listening  to  the  roar  of 
the  long  rapid,  near  the  foot  of  which  their 
cabin  stood.  Then  he  took  to  his  oars,  and 
rowed  to  the  end  of  his  night-line,  tied  to  the 
wharf.  He  had  an  unusual  fear  that  it  might  be 
gone,  but  found  it  all  right,  stretched  taut ;  a 
slender  rope,  four  hundred  feet  long,  floated 
here  and  there  for  away  in  the  darkness  by  flat 
cedar  sticks,  —  a  rope  carrying  short  bits  of  line, 
and  forty  hooks,  all  loaded  with  excellent  fat, 
wriggling  worms. 

That  day  little  Baptiste  had  taken  much 
trouble  with  his  night-line ;  he  was  proud  of  the 
plentiful  bait,  and  now,  as  he  felt  the  tightened 
rope  with  his  fingers,  he  told  himself  that  his 
well-filled  hooks  must  attract  plenty  of  fish,  — 
perhaps  a  sturgeon  !  Wouldn't  that  be  grand? 
A  big  sturgeon  of  seventy-five  pounds  ! 


LITTLE  BAPTISTE. 


135 


He  pondered  the  Ottawa  statement  that 
"there  are  seven  kinds  of  meat  on  the  head 
of  a  sturgeon,"  and,  enumerating  the  kinds,  fell 
into  a  conviction  that  one  sturgeon  at  least 
would  surely  come  to  his  line.  Had  not  three 
been  caught  in  one  night  by  Pierre  Mallette, 
who  had  no  sort  of  claim,  who  was  too  lazy  to 
bait  more  than  half  his  hooks,  altogether  too 
wicked  to  receive  any  special  favors  from  le 
bon  Dieu  ? 

Little  Baptiste  rowed  home,  entered  the  cabin 
softly,  and  stripped  for  bed,  almost  happy  in 
guessing  what  the  big  fish  would  probably  weigh. 

Putting  his  arms  around  little  Andr^,  he  tried 
to  go  to  sleep ;  but  the  threats  of  Conolly  came 
to  him  with  new  force,  and  he  lay  awake,  with 
a  heavy  dread  in  his  heart. 

How  long  he  had  been  lying  thus  he  did  not 
know,  when  a  heavy  step  came  upon  the  plank 
outside  the  door. 

"  Father 's  home  ! "  cried  little  Baptiste, 
springing  to  the  floor  as  the  door  opened. 


t-  J| 


'it 

'iir 


{It 


'3^ 


136 


LIl'TLE  BAPTISTE. 


4h 


9'  m 

I 


"  Baptiste  !.my  own  Baptiste  !  "  cried  Delima, 
putting  her  arms  around  her  husband  as  he 
stood  over  her. 

"  Did  I  not  say,"  said  the  old  woman,  seizing 
her  son's  hand,  "that  the  good  God  would 
send  help  in  time?" 

Little  Baptiste  lit  the  lamp.  Then  they  saw 
something  in  the  father's  face  that  startled  them 
all.  He  had  not  spoken,  and  now  they  per- 
ceived that  he  was  haggard,  pale,  wild-eyed. 

"  The  good  God  !  "  cried  big  Baptiste,  and 
knelt  by  the  bed,  and  bowed  his  head  on  his 
arms,  and  wept  so  loudly  that  little  Andr6  and 
Odillon,  wakening,  joined  his  cry.  "Z<?  bon 
Dieu  has  forgotten  us !  For  all  my  winter's 
work  I  have  not  one  dollar  !  The  concern  is 
failed.  Rewbell  paid  not  one  cent  of  wages, 
but  ran  away,  and  the  timber  has  been  seized." 

Oh,  the  heartbreak !  Oh,  poor  Delima ! 
poor  children  !  and  poor  little  Baptiste,  with 
the  threats  of  Conolly  rending  his  heart ! 

"I  have  walked  all  day,"  said   the   father, 


1  ... 


LITTLE  BAPTISTS. 


137 


**  and  eaten  not  a  thing.     Give  me  something, 
DeHma." 

"  O  holy  angels ! "  cried  the  poor  woman, 
breaking  into  a  wild  weeping.  "  O  Baptiste, 
Baptiste,  my  poor  man !  There  is  nothing ; 
not  a  scrap  ;  not  any  flour,  not  meal,  not  grease 
even ;  not  a  pinch  of  tea ! "  but  still  she 
searched  frantically  about  the  rooms. 

*•  Never  mind,"  said  big  Baptiste  then,  hold- 
ing her  in  his  strong  arms.  '•  I  am  not  so 
hungry  as  tired,  Delima,  and  I  can  sleep." 

The  old  woman,  who  had  been  swaying  to 
and  fro  in  her  chair  of  rushes,  rose  now,  and 
laid  her  aged  hands  on  the  broad  shoulders  of 
the  man. 

"  My  son  Baptiste,"  she  said,  "  you  must  not 
say  that  God  has  forgotten  us,  for  He  has  not 
forgotten  us.  The  hunger  is  hard  to  bear,  I 
know, —  hard,  hard  to  bear ;  but  great  plenty  will 
be  sent  in  answer  to  our  prayers.  And  it  is 
hard,  hard  to  lose  thy  long  winter's  work ;  but 
be  patient,  my  son,  and  thankful,  yes,  thankful 
for  all  thou  hast. 


^MM^Mito* 


138 


LITTLE   BAPTISTE. 


\:\ 

It!  ' 
It. 


"  Behold,  Delima  is  well  and  strong.  See 
the  little  Baptiste,  how  much  a  man !  Yes, 
that  is  right ;  kiss  the  little  Andrd  and  Odillon  ; 
and  see  !  how  sweetly  'Toinette  sleeps  !  All 
strong  and  well,  son  Baptiste  !  Were  one  gone, 
think  what  thou  wouldst  have  lost !  But  in- 
stead, be  thankful,  for  behold,  another  has 
been  given,  —  the  little  Seraphine  here,  that 
thou  hast  not  before  seen  ! " 

Big,  rough,  soft-hearted  Baptiste  knelt  by  the 
cradle,  and  kissed  the  babe  gentl;-. 

"  It  is  true,  Meniere,"  he  answered,  "  and  I 
thank  le  don  Dieu  for  his  goodness  to  me." 

But  little  Baptiste,  lying  wide  awake  for 
hours  afterwards,  was  not  thankful.  He  could 
not  see  that  matters  could  be  much  worse.  A 
big  hard  lump  was  in  his  throat  as  he  thought 
of  his  father's  hunger,  and  the  home-coming  so 
different  from  what  they  had  fondly  counted  on. 
Great  slow  tears  came  into  the  boy's  eyes,  and 
he  wiped  them  away,  ashamed  even  in  the  dark 
to  have  been  guilty  of  such  weakness. 


m 


i  i 


i  ;! 


•A 


LITTLE  BAPTISTE. 


139 


In  the  gray  dawn  little  Baptiste  suddenly 
awoke,  with  the  sensation  of  having  slept  on 
his  post.  How  heavy  his  heart  was!  Why? 
He  sat  dazed  with  indefinite  sorrow.  Ah,  now 
he  remembered  !  Conolly  threatening  to  turn 
them  out !  and  his  father  back  penniless  !  No 
breakfast !     Well,  we  must  see  about  that. 

Very  quietly  he  rose,  put  on  his  patched 
clothes,  and  went  out.  Heavy  mist  covered  the 
face  of  the  river,  and  somehow  the  rapid 
seemed  stilled  to  a  deep,  pervasive  murmur. 
As  he  pushed  his  boat  off,  the  morning  fog  was 
chillier  than  frost  about  him  ;  but  his  heart  got 
lighter  as  he  rowed  toward  his  night-line,  and 
he  became  even  eager  for  the  pleasure  of  hand- 
ling his  fish.  He  made  up  his  mind  not  to  be 
much  disappointed  if  there  were  no  sturgeon, 
but  could  not  quite  believe  there  would  be 
none ;  surely  it  was  reasonable  to  expect  one, 
perhaps  two  —  why  not  three  ?  —  among  the 
catfish  and  dore. 

How  very  taut  and  heavy  the  rope  felt  as  he 


M 


ill 


140 


LITTLE  BAPTISTS. 


II. 


I 


raised  it  over  his  gunwales,  and  letting  the  bow 
swing  up  stream,  began  pulling  in  the  line  hand 
over  hand  !  He  had  heard  of  cases  where 
every  hook  had  its  fish ;  such  a  thing  might 
happen  again  surely  !  Yard  after  yard  of  rope 
he  passed  slowly  over  the  boat,  and  down  into 
the  water  it  sank  on  his  track. 

Now  a  knot  on  the  line  told  him  he  was  Hear- 
ing the  first  hook ;  he  watched  for  the  quiver 
and  struggle  of  the  fish,  —  probably  a  big  one, 
for  there  he  had  put  a  tremendous  bait  on  and 
spat  on  it  for  luck,  moreover.  What?  the 
short  line  hung  down  from  the  rope,  and  the 
baited  hook  rose  clear  of  the  water ! 

Baptiste  instantly  made  up  his  mind  that  that 
hook  had  been  placed  a  little  too  far  in -shore  ; 
he  remembered  thinking  so  before ;  the  next 
hook  was  in  about  the  right  place  ! 

Hand  over  hand,  ah  !  the  second  hook,  too  ! 
Still  baited,  the  big  worm  very  livid  !  It  must 
be  thus  because  that  worm  was  pushed  up  the 
shank  of  the  hook  in  such  a  queer  way  :  he  had 


LITTLE  BAPTIHTE. 


141 


been  rathci  pleased  when  he  gave  the  bait  that 
particular  twist,  and  now  was  surprised  at  him- 
self; why,  any  one  could  sec  it  was  a  thing  to 
scare  fish  ! 

Hand  over  hand  to  the  third,  —  the  hook  was 
naked  of  bait !  Well,  that  was  more  satisfactory ; 
it  showed  they  had  been  biting,  and,  after  all, 
this  was  just  about  the  beginning  of  the  right 
place. 

Hand  over  hand  j  noiv  the  splashing  will 
begin,  thought  little  Baptiste,  and  out  came 
the  fourth  hook  with  its  livid  worm  !  He  held 
the  rope  in  his  hand  without  drawing  it  in  for  a 
few  moments,  but  could  see  no  reasonable 
objection  to  that  last  worm.  His  heart  sank  a 
little,  but  pshaw !  only  four  hooks  out  of  forty 
were  up  yet !  wait  till  the  eddy  behind  the  shoal 
was  reached,  then  great  things  would  be  S'jen. 
Maybe  the  fish  had  not  been  lymg  in  that  first 
bit  of  current. 

Hand  over  hand  again,  now  1  yes,  certainly, 
there  is  the  right  swirl  1     What?  a  losch^  that 


m 


,mmmMmtm*^ 


142 


LITTLE  BAPTISTS. 


/ 


unclean  Hemi-lizard  !  The  boy  tore  it  off  and 
flung  it  iniligniuitly  into  the  river.  How- 
ever, there  was  good  luck  in  a  losch  ;  that  was 
well  known. 

But  the  next  hook,  and  the  next,  and  next, 
and  next  came  up  baited  and  Ashless.  He 
pulled  hand  over  hand  quickly  —  not  a  fish! 
and  he  must  have  gone  over  half  the  line  ! 
Little  IJai)liste  stopped,  with  his  heart  like  lead 
and  hla  arms  trembling.  It  was  terrible  !  Not 
a  fish,  and  his  father  had  no  supper,  and  there 
was  no  credit  at  the  store.     Poor  little  Baptiste  ! 

Again  he  hauled  hand  over  hand  —  one  hook, 
two,  three  —  oh  1  ho  !  Glorious  !  What  a  de- 
lightful sheer  downward  the  rope  took  !  Surely 
the  big  sturgeon  at  last,  trying  to  stay  down 
on  the  bottom  with  the  hook !  But  Baptiste 
would  show  that  fish  his  mistake.  He  pulled, 
pulled,  stood  up  to  pull ;  there  was  a  sort  of 
shake,  a  sudden  give  of  the  rope,  and  little 
Baptiste  tumbled  over  backward  as  he  jerked 
his  line  up  from  under  the  big  stone ! 


LITTLE  BAPTISTS. 


143 


Then  he  heard  the  shutters  clattering  as 
Conolly's  clerk  took  them  off  the  store  window ; 
at  half-past  five  to  the  minute  that  was  always 
done.  Soon  big  Baptiste  would  be  up,  that 
was  certain.  Again  the  boy  began  hailing  in 
line  :  baited  hook  !  baited  hook  !  naked  hook  ! 
baited  hook  !  —  such  was  still  the  tale. 

"Surely,  surely,"  implored  little  Baptiste, 
silently,  "  I  shall  find  some  fish  !  "  Up  !  up  ! 
only  four  remained  I  The  boy  broke  down. 
Could  it  be?  Had  he  not  somehow  skipped 
many  hooks  ?  Could  it  be  that  there  was  to  be 
no  breakfast  for  the  children?  Naked  hook 
again  !  Oh,  for  some  fish  !  anything  !  three, 
two  ! 

"  Oh,  send  just  one  for  my  father !  —  my 
poor,  hungry  father !  "  cried  little  Baptiste,  and 
drew  up  his  last  hook.  It  came  full  baited,  and 
the  line  was  out  of  the  water  clear  away  to  his 
outer  buoy ! 

He  let  go  the  rope  and  drifted  down  the 
river,  crying  as  though  his  heart  would  break, 


m 


h 


% 


i:* 


144 


LITTLE  BAPTISTS. 


U'    H 


All  the  good  hooks  useless  !  all  the  labor  thrown 
away  !  all  his  self-confidence  come  to  naught  !■ 

Up  rose  the  great  sun ;  from  around  the 
kneeling  boy  drifted  the  last  of  the  morning 
mists;  bright  beams  touched  his  bowed  head 
tenderly.  He  lifted  his  face  and  looked 
up  the  rapid.  Then  he  jumped  to  his  feet 
with  sudden  wonder;  a  great  joy  lit  up  his 
countenance. 

Far  up  the  river  a  low,  broad,  white  patch  ap- 
peared on  the  sharp  sky-line  made  by  the  level 
dark  su  umit  of  the  long  slope  of  tumbling 
water.  On  this  white  patch  stood  many  figures 
of  swaying  men  black  against  the  clear  morning 
sky,  and  little  Baptiste  saw  instantly  that  an 
attempt  was  being  made  to  "  run  "  a  "  band  " 
of  deals,  or  many  cribs  lashed  together,  instead 
of  single  cribs  as  had  been  done  the  day 
before. 

The  broad  strip  of  wliite  changed  its  form 
slowly,  dipped  over  the  slope,  drew  out  like  a 
wide  ribbon,  and  soon  showed  a  distinct  slant 


\ 


LITTLE  BAPTtSTE. 


M5 


across  the  mighty  volume  of  the  deep  raft- 
channel.  When  Httle  Baptiste,  acquainted  as 
he  was  with  every  current,  eddy,  and  shoal  in 
the  rapid,  saw  that  slant,  he  knew  that  his  first 
impression  of  what  was  about  to  happen  had 
been  correct.  The  pilot  of  the  band  had 
allowed  it  to  drift  too  flir  north  before  reaching 
the  rapid's  head. 

Now  the  front  cribs,  instead^of  following  the 
curve  of  the  channel,  had  taken  slower  water, 
while  the  rear  cribs,  impelled  by  the  rush  under 
them,  swung  the  band  slowly  across  the  current. 
All  along  the  front  the  standing  men  swayed 
back  and  forth,  plying  sweeps  full  forty  feet 
long,  attempting  to  swing  into  channel  again, 
with  their  strokes  dashing  the  dark  rollers 
before  the  band  into  wide  splashes  of  white. 
On  the  rear  cribs  another  crew  pulled  in  the 
contrary  direction ;  about  the  middle  of  the 
band  stood  the  pilot,  urging  his  gangs  with 
gestures  to  greater  efforts. 

Suddenly  he  made  a  new  motion ;  the  gang 

lO 


■^ ''  li 


146 


LITTLE  BAPTISTS . 


/ 


/ 


behind  drew  in  their  oars  and  ran  hastily 
forward  to  double  the  force  in  front.  But 
they  came  too  late  1  Hardly  had  the  doubled 
bow  crew  taken  a  stroke  when  all  drew  in 
their  oars  and  ran  bac'.i  to  be  out  of  danger. 
Next  moment  the  front  cribs  struck  the 
"  hog's-back  "  shoal. 

Then  the  long  broad,  band  curved  downward 
in  the  centre,  the  rear  cribs  swung  into  the 
shallows  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  raft- 
channel,  there  was  a  great  straining  and 
crashing,  the  men  in  front  huddled  together, 
watching  the  wreck  anxiously,  and  the  band 
went  speedily  to  pieces.  Soon  a  fringe  of 
single  planks  came  down  stream,  then  cribs  and 
pieces  of  cribs;  half  the  band  was  drifting 
with  the  currents,  and  half  was  "  hung  up  "  on 
the  rocks  among  the  breakers. 

Launching  the  big  red  flat-bottomed  bow 
boat,  twenty  of  the  raftsmen  came  with  wild 
speed  down  the  river,  and  as  there  had  been  no 
rusli  to  get  aboard,  little  Baptiste  knew  that  the 


Ig 


LITTLE  SAPTISTE. 


147 


cribs  on  which  the  men  stood  were  so  hard 
aground  that  no  lives  were  in  danger.  It 
meant  much  to  him;  it  meant  that  he  was 
instantly  at  liberty  to  gather  in  money  !  money, 
in  sums  that  loomed  to  gigantic  figures  before 
his  imagination. 

He  knew  that  there  was  an  important  reason 
for  hurrying  the  deals  to  Quebec,  else  the  great 
risk  of  running  a  band  at  that  season  would  not 
have  been  undertaken ;  and  he  knew  that  hard 
cash  would  be  paid  down  as  salvage  for  all 
planks  brought  ashore,  and  thus  secured  from 
drifting  far  and  wide  over  the  lake-like  expanse 
below  the  rapid's  foot.  Little  Baptiste  plunged 
his  oars  in  and  made  for  a  clump  of  deals  float- 
ing in  the  eddy  near  his  own  shore.  As  he 
rushed  along,  the  raftsmen's  boat  crossed  his 
bows,  going  to  the  main  raft  below  for  ropes 
and  material  to  secure  the  cribs  coming  down 
intact. 

"  Good  boy ! "  shouted  the  foreman  to 
Baptiste.     "  Ten  cents  for  every  deal  you  fetch 


\t 


148 


LITTLE  BAPTISTS. 


ashore  above  the  raft!'  Ten  cents!  he  had 
expected  but  five  1     What  a  harvest ! 

Striking  his  pike-pole  into  the  clump  of  deals, 
— "  fifty  at  least,"  said  joyful  Baptiste,  —  he 
soon  secured  them  to  his  boat,  and  then  pulled, 
pulled,  pulled,  till  the  blood  rushed  to  his  head, 
and  his  arms  ached,  before  he  landed  his 
wealth. 

"  Father  !  "  cried  he,  bursting  breathlessly 
into  the  sleeping  household.  "  Come  quick  !  I 
can't  get  it  up  without  you." 

"  Big  sturgeon?  "  cried  the  shantyman,  jump- 
ing into  his  trousers. 

"Oh,  but  we  shall  have  a  good  fish  break- 
fast !  "  cried  Delima. 

"  Did  I  not  say  the  blessed  k  bon  Dieu  would 
send  plenty  fish  ?  "  observed  Meniere. 

"  Not  a  fish ! "  cried  Httle  Baptiste,  with 
recovered  breath.  "  But  look  I  look  !  "  and  he 
flung  open  the  door.  The  eddy  was  now  white 
with  planks. 

"  Ten  cents  for  each  ! "  cried  the  boy.  "  The 
foreman  told  me." 


-.-■^ 


LITTLE   BAPTLSTE. 


149 


^*  Ten  cents  !  "  shouted  his  father.  "  Bap- 
teme  !  it  *s  my  winter's  wages  !  " 

And  the  old  grandmother!  And  Delima? 
Why,  they  just  put  their  arms  round  each  other 
and  cried  for  joy. 

"  And  yet  there  's  no  breakfast,"  said  Delima, 
starting  up.     "  And  they  will  work  hard,  hard." 

At  that  instant  who  should  reach  the  door 
but  Monsieur  ConoUy !  He  was  a  man  who 
respected  cash  wherever  he  found  it,  and 
already  the  two  Baptistes  had  a  fine  show 
ashore. 

"  Ma'ame  Larocque,"  said  ConoUy,  politely, 
putting  in  his  head,  "  of  course  you  know  I  was 
only  joking  yesterday.  You  can  get  anything 
you  want  at  the  store." 

What  a  breakfast  they  did  have,  to  be  sure  ! 
the  Baptistes  eating  while  they  worked.  Back 
and  forward  they  dashed  till  late  afternoon,  driv- 
ing ringed  spikes  into  the  deals,  running  light 
ropes  through  the  rings,  and,  when  a  good 
string   had  thus  been  made,  going  ashore  to 


fl 


150 


LITTLE  BAPTISTS. 


haul  in.  At  that  hauHng  Dehma  and  Meniere, 
even  Httle  Andr^  and  Odillon  gave  a  hand. 

Everybody  in  the  Httle  hamlet  made  money 
that  day,  but  the  Larocques  twice  as  much  as 
any  other  family,  because  they  had  an  eddy  and 
a  low  shore.  With  the  help  of  the  people 
**  the  big  Bourgeois  "  who  owned  the  broken 
raft  got  it  away  that  evening,  and  saved  his 
fat  contract  after  all. 

"Did  I  not  say  so?"  said  "  Meniere, ^^  at 
night,  for  the  hundredth  time.  "  Did  I  not 
say  so?  Yes,  indeed,  le  bon  Dieu  watches 
over  us  all." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  grandmother,"  echoed  little 
Baptiste,  thinking  of  his  failure  on  the  night- 
line.  "  We  may  take  as  much  trouble  as  we 
like,  but  it 's  no  use  unless  le  bon  Dieu  helps 
us.  Only  —  I  don'  know  what  de  big  Bourgeois 
say  about  that  —  his  raft  was  all  broke  up  so 
bad." 

"  Ah,  oui,^''  said  Metnere,  looking  puzzled  for 
but  a  moment.     "  But  he  did  n't  put  his  trust 


LITTLE  BAPTISTS. 


151 


in  le  ban  Dieu ;  that 's  it,  for  sure.  Besides, 
maybe  ie  ban  Dieu  want  to  teach  him  a  lesson ; 
he  '11  not  try  for  run  a  whole  band  of  deals 
next  time.  You  see  that  was  a  tempting  of 
Providence ;  and  then  —  the  big  Bourgeois  is 
a  Protestant." 


i 


THE    RIDE  BY  NIGHT. 


1 1 


0 


MR.  ADAM  BAINES  is  a  little  gray  about 
the  temples,  but  still  looks  so  young 
that  few  could  suppose  him  to  have  served  in 
the  Civil  War.  Indeed,  he  was  in  the  army 
less  than  a  year.  How  he  went  out  of  it  he 
told  me  in  some  such  words  as  these :  — 

An  orderly  from  the  direction  of  Meade's 
headquarters  galloped  into  our  parade  ground, 
and  straight  for  the  man  on  guard  before  the 
colonel's  tent.  That  was  pretty  late  in  the 
afternoon  of  a  bright  March  day  in  1865,  but 
the  parade  ground  was  all  red  mud  with  shallow 
pools.  I  remember  well  how  the  hind  hoofs  of 
the  orderly's  galloper  threw  away  great  chunks 
of  earth  as  he  splashed  diagonally  across  the 
open. 


THE  RIDE  BY  NIGHT. 


153 


e 


His  rider  never  slowed  till  he  brought  his 
horse  to  its  haunches  before  the  sentry.  There 
he  flung  himself  off  instantly,  caught  up  his 
sabre,  and  ran  through  the  middle  opening 
?f  *'  high  screen  of  '^^I'^lin^  pines  stuck  on 
ciid,  .-^e  by  side,  all  around  the  acre  or  so 
occupied  by  the  officers'   quarters. 

The  day,  though  sunny,  was  not  warm,  and 
nearly  all  the  men  of  my  regiment  were  in 
their  huts  when  that  galloping  was  heard. 
Then  they  hurried  out  like  bees  from  rows 
of  hives,  ran  up  the  lanes  between  the  lines 
of  huts,  and  collected,  each  company  separately, 
on  the  edge  of  the  parade  ground  opposite  the 
officers'  quarters. 

You  see  we  had  a  notion  that  the  orderly 
had  brought  the  word  to  break  camp.  For  five 
months  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  had  been  in 
winter  quarters,  and  for  weeks  nothing  more 
exciting  than  vidette  duty  had  broken  the 
monotony  of  our  brigade.  We  understood  that 
Sheridan  had  received  command  of  all  Grant's 


"I'M 


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154 


THE  RIDE  BY  NIGHT. 


cavalry,  but  did  not  know  but  the  orderly  had 
rushed  from  Sheridan  himself.  Yet  we  awaited 
the  man's  re-appearance  with  intense  curiosity. 

Soon,  instead  of  the  orderly,  out  ran  our 
first  lieutenant,  a  small,  wiry,  long-haired  man 
named  Miller.  He  was  in  undress  uniform,  — 
just  a  blouse  and  trousers,  —  and  bare-headed. 
Though  he  wore  low  shoes,  he  dashed  through 
mud  and  water  toward  us,  plainly  in  a  great 
hurry. 

"  Sergeant  Kennedy,  I  want  ten  men  at  once 

—  mounted,"  Miller  said.  "Choose  the  ten 
best  able  for  a  long  ride,  and  give  them  the 
best  horses  in  the  company*    You  understand, 

—  no  matter  whose  the  ten  best  horses  are,  give 
'em  to  the  ten  best  riders." 

"  I  understand,  sir,"  said  Kennedy. 

By  this  time  half  the  company  had  started 
for  the  stables,  for  fully  half  considered  them- 
selves among  the  best  riders.  The  lieutenant 
laughed  at  their  eagerness. 

"Halt,  boys!"   he   cried.     "Sergeant,   I'll 


THE  RIDR  BY  NIGHT. 


155 


pick  out  four  myself.  Come  yourself,  and  bring 
Corporal  Crowfoot,  Private  liadcr,  and  Private 
Absalom  Gray." 

Crowfoot,  Bader,  and  Gray  had  been  running 
for  the  stables  with  the  rest.  Now  these  three 
old  soldiers  grinned  and  walked,  as  much  as  to 
say,  "  We  need  n't  hurry ;  we  're  picked  any- 
how ;  "  while  the  others  hurried  on.  I  remained 
near  Kennedy,  for  I  was  so  young  and  green  a 
soldier  that  I  supposed  I  had  no  chance  to  go. 

"  Hurry  up !  parade  as  soon  as  possible. 
One  day's  rations  ;  light  marching  order  —  no 
blankets — fetch  over-coats  and  ponchos,"  said 
Miller,  turning ;  "  and  in  choosing  your  men, 
favor  light  weights." 

That  was,  no  doubt,  the  remark  which 
brought  me  in.  I  was  lanky,  light,  bred  among 
horses,  and  one  of  the  best  in  the  regiment 
had  fallen  to  my  lot.  Kennedy  wheeled,  and 
his  eye  fell  on  me. 

" Saddle  up,  Adam,  boy,"  said  he ;  "I  guess 
you  '11  do." 


''if. 


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if 


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ii  131 


I 


'S6 


THE  RIDE  BY  NIGHT. 


Lieutcnimt  Miller  ran  back  to  his  quarters, 
his  long  luiir  Hying  wide.  When  he  reappeared 
fifteen  minutes  later,  we  were  trotting  across 
the  parade  ground  to  meet  him.  He  was 
mountcil,  not  on  his  own  charger,  but  on  the 
colonel's  famous  thorough-bred  bay.  Then  we 
knew  a  hard  ride  must  be  in  prospect. 

"What!  one  of  the  boys?"  cried  Miller, 
as  he  saw  me.     "  He  's  too  young." 

"  He  's  very  light,  sir ;  tough  as  hickory.  I 
guess  he  '11  do,"  said  Kennedy. 

"  Well,  no  time  to  change  now.  Follow  me  ! 
But,  hang  it,  you  've  got  your  carbines  !  Oh,  I 
forgot !  Keep  pistols  only  !  throw  down  your 
sabres  and  carbines  —  anywhere  —  never  mind 
the  mud  1 " 

As  we  still  hesitated  to  throw  down  our 
clean  guns,  he  shouted  :  "  Down  with  them  — 
anywhere  I  Now,  boys,  after  me,  by  twos  !  Trot 
—  gallop!" 

Away  we  went,  not  a  man  jack  of  us  knew 
for  where  or  what.    The  colonel  and  officers. 


THE  RIDE  BY  NIGHT. 


'57 


standing  grouped  before  regimental  head- 
quarters, volleyed  a  cheer  at  us.  It  was  taken 
up  by  the  whole  regiment ;  it  was  taken  up  by 
the  brigade ;  it  was  repeated  by  regiment  after 
regiment  of  infantry  as  we  galloped  through  the 
great  camp  toward  the  left  front  of  the  army. 
The  speed  at  which  Miller  led  over  a  rough 
corduroy  road  was  extraordinary,  and  all  the 
men  suspected  some  desperate  enterprise  afoot. 

Red  and  brazen  was  the  set  of  the  sun.  I 
remember  it  well,  afte.  we  got  clear  of  the 
forts,  clear  of  the  breastworks,  clear  of  the 
reserves,  down  the  long  slope  and  across  the  wide 
ford  of  Grimthorpe's  Creek,  never  drawing 
rein. 

The  lieutenant  led  by  ten  yards  or  so.  He 
had  ordered  each  two  to  take  as  much  distance 
from  the  other  two  in  advance ;  but  we  rode 
so  fast  that  the  water  from  the  heels  of  his 
horse  and  from  the  heels  of  each  two  splashed 
into  the  faces  of  the  following  men. 

From  the  ford  we  loped  up  a  hill,  and  passed 


ts8 


THE  RIDE  BY  NIGHT. 


/ 


liM 


the  most  advanced  infantry  pickets,  who  laughed 
and  chaffed  us,  asking  us  for  locks  of  our  hair, 
and  if  our  mothers  knew  we  were  out,  and 
promising  to  report  our  last  words  faithfully  to 
the  folks  at  home. 

Soon  we  turned  to  the  left  again,  swept  close 
by  several  cavalry  videttes,  and  knew  then  that 
we  were  bound  for  a  ride  through  a  country 
that  might  or  might  not  be  within  Lee's  outer 
lines,  at  that  time  extended  so  thinly  in  many 
places  that  his  pickets  were  far  out  of  touch  with 
one  another.  To  this  day  I  do  not  know  precisely 
where  we  went,  nor  precisely  what  for.  Soldiers 
are  seldom  informed  of  the  meaning  of  their 
movements. 

What  I  do  know  is  what  we  did  while  I  was 
in  the  ride.  As  we  were  approaching  dense 
pine  woods  the  lieutenant  turned  in  his  saddle, 
slacked  pace  a  little,  and  shouted,  "  Boys, 
bunch  up  near  me  !  " 

He  screwed  round  in  his  saddle  so  far  that 
we  could  all  see  and  hear,  and  said :  — 


THE  RIDE  BY  mOHT. 


»S9 


"Boys,  the  order  is  to  follow  this  road  as 
fast  as  we  can  till  our  horses  drop,  or  else  the 
Johnnies  drop  us,  or  else  we  drop  upon  three 
brigades  of  our  own  infantry.  I  guess  they  've  got 
astray  somehow ;  but  I  don't  know  myself  what 
the  trouble  is.  Our  orders  are  plain.  The 
brigades  are  supposed  to  be  somewhere  on  this 
road.  I  guess  we  shall  do  a  big  thing  if  we 
reach  those  men  to-night.  i\\\  we  ''  ;  got  ^  do 
is  to  ride  and  deliver  this  despatch  t:>  the 
general  in  command.     You  all   i.iderstand?  " 

"  Yes,  sir  !  Yes,  sir  1  Yes,  sir  ! " 

"  It 's  necessary  you  all  should.  Hark,  now  1 
We  are  not  likely  to  strike  the  enemy  in  force, 
but  we  are  likely  to  run  up  ugainst  small 
parties.  Now,  Kennedy,  if  they  down  me,  you 
are  to  stop  just  long  enough  to  grab  the 
despatch  from  my  breast;  then  away  you  go, 
—  always  on  the  main  v  /nil.  If  they  down  you 
after  you  've  got  the  paper,  the  man  who  can 
grab  it  first  is  to  take  it  and  hurry  forward.  So 
on  right  to  the  last  man.     If  they  down  him, 


I 


i6o 


THE  RIDE  BY  NIGHT. 


7 


and  he  's  got  his  senses  when  he  falls,  he  's  to 
tear  the  paper  up,  and  scatter  it  as  widely  as  he 
can.     You  all  understand  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir  !     Yes,  sir  !  " 

"  All  right,  then.     String  out  again  !  " 

He  touched  the  big  bay  with  the  spur,  and 
shot  quickly  ahead. 

With  the  long  rest  of  the  winter  our  horses 
were  in  prime  spirits,  though  mostly  a  little  too 
fleshy  for  perfect  condition.  I  had  cared  well 
for  my  horse ;  he  was  fast  and  sound  in  wind 
and  limb.  I  was  certainly  the  lightest  rider  of 
the  eleven. 

I  was  still  thinking  of  the  probability  that  I 
should  get  further  on  the  way  than  any  comrade 
except  the  lieutenant,  or  perhaps  Crowfoot  and 
Bader,  whose  horses  were  in  great  shape ;  I 
was  thinking  myself  likely  to  win  promotion 
before  morning,  when  a  cry  came  out  of  the 
darkness  ahead.  The  words  of  the  challenge  I 
was  not  able  to  catch,  but  I  heard  Miller  shout, 
"  Forward,  boys  !  " 


THE  RIDE  BY  NIGHT. 


i6i 


We  shook  out  more  speed  just  as  a  rifle  spat 
its  long  flash  at  us  from  about  a  hundred  yards 
ahead.  For  one  moment  I  plainly  saw  the 
Southerner's  figure.  Kennedy  reeled  beside 
me,  flung  up  his  hands  with  a  scream,  and  fell. 
His  horse  stopped  at  once.  In  a  moment  the 
lieutenant  had  ridden  the  sentry  down. 

Then  from  the  right  side  of  the  road  a  party, 
who  must  have  been  lying  round  the  camp-fire 
that  we  faintly  saw  in  among  the  pines,  let  fly 
at  us.  They  had  surely  been  surprised  in  their 
sleep.     I  clearly  saw  them  as  their  guns  flashed. 

"  Forward  !  Don't  shoot !  Ride  on,"  shouted 
Miller.  "  Bushwhackers !  Thank  God,  not 
mounted !  Any  of  you  make  out  horses  with 
them?" 

«  No,  sir  !     No,  sir  !  " 

"Who  yelled?  who  went  down?" 

"  Kennedy,  sir,"  I  cried. 

"  Too  bad  !     Any  one  else  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"AH  safe?" 

II 


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m 


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l62 


THE  RIDE  BY  NIGHT. 


u 


I  'm  touched  in  my  right  arm ;  but  it 's 
nothing,"  I  said.  The  twinge  was  slight,  and 
in  the  fleshy  place  in  front  of  my  shoulder.  I 
could  not  make  out  that  I  was  losing  blood, 
and  the  pain  from  the  hurt  was  scarcely 
perceptible. 

"  Good  boy  !  Keep  up,  Adam  !  "  called  the 
lieutenant  with  a  kind  tone.  I  remember  my 
delight  that  he  spoke  my  front  name.  On  we 
flew. 

Possibly  the  shots  had  been  heard  by  the 
party  half  a  mile  further  on,  for  they  greeted  us 
with  a  volley.  A  horse  coughed  hard  and 
pitched  down  behind  me.  His  rider  yelled  as 
he  fell.  Then  two  more  shots  came  :  Crowfoot 
reeled  in  front  of  me,  and  somehow  checked 
his  horse.  I  saw  him  no  more.  Next  moment 
we  were  upon  the  group  with  our  pistols. 

"  Forward,  men  !  Don't  stop  to  fight !  " 
roared  Miller,  as  he  got  clear.  A  rifle  was 
fired  so  close  to  my  head  that  the  flame  burned 
my  back  hair,  and   my  ears  rang  for   half  an 


THE  RIDE  BY  NIGHT. 


163 


hour  or  more.  My  bay  leaped  high  and  dashed 
down  a  man.  In  a  few  seconds  I  was  fairly 
out  of  the  scrimmage. 

How  many  of  my  comrades  had  gone  down 
I  knew  not,  nor  beside  whom  I  was  riding. 
Suddenly  our  horses  plunged  into  a  hole ;  his 
stumbled,  the  man  pitched  forward,  and  was 
left  behind.  Then  I  heard  a  shot,  the  clatter 
of  another  falling  horse,  the  angry  yell  of 
another  thrown  rider. 

On  we  went,  —  the  relics  of  us.  Now  we 
rushed  out  of  the  pine  forest  into  broad  moon- 
light, and  I  saw  two  riders  between  me  and  the 
lieutenant,  —  one  man  almost  at  my  shoulder^ 
and  another  galloping  ten  yards  behind.  Very 
gradually  this  man  dropped  to  the  rear.  We 
had  lost  five  men  already,  and  still  the  night 
was  young. 

Bader  and  Absalom  Gray  were  nearest  me. 
Neither  spoke  a  word  till  we  struck  upon  a 
space  of  sandy  road.  Then  I  could  hear,  far 
behind  the  rear  man,  a  sound  of  galloping  on 
the  hard  highway. 


m\ 


ill 


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3Sr 

If  r 


164 


THE  RIDE  BY  NIGHT. 


"  They  're  after  us,  lieutenant !  "  shouted 
Bader. 

"  Many  ?  "  He  slacked  speed,  and  we  listened 
attentively. 

"Only  one,"  cried  Miller.  "He's  coming 
fast." 

The  pursuer  gained  so  rapidly  that  we  looked 
to  our  pistols  again.    Then  Absalom  Gray  cried  : 

"  It 's  only  a  horse  !  " 

In  a  few  moments  the  great  gray  of  fallen 
Corporal  Crowfoot  overtook  us,  went  ahead, 
and  slacked  speed  by  the  lieutenant. 

"  Good  !  He  '11  be  fresh  when  the  rest  go 
down  !  "  shouted  Miller.  "  Let  the  last  man 
mount  the  gray  !  " 

By  this  time  we  had  begun  to  think  ourselves 
clear  of  the  enemy,  and  doomed  to  race  on  till 
the  horses  should  fall. 

Suddenly  the  hoofs  of  Crowfoot's  gray  and 
the  lieutenant's  bay  thundered  upon  a  plank 
road  whose  hollow  noise,  when  we  all  reached 
it,  should  have   been  heard   far.     It  took  us 


THE  RIDE  BY  NIGHT. 


165 


through  wide  orchard  lands  into  a  low- lying 
mist  by  the  banks  of  a  great  marsh,  till  we 
passed  through  that  fog,  strode  heavily  up  a 
slope,  and  saw  the  shimmer  of  roofs  under  the 
moon.  Straight  through  the  main  street  we 
pounded  along. 

Whether  it  was  wholly  deserted  I  know  not, 
but  not  a  human  being  was  in  the  streets,  nor 
any  face  visible  at  the  black  windows.  Not 
even  a  dog  barked.  I  noticed  no  living  thing 
except  some  turkeys  roosting  on  a  fence,  and 
a  white  cat  that  sprang  upon  the  pillar  of  a 
gateway  and  thence  to  a  tree. 

Some  of  the  houses  seemed  to  have  been 
ruined  by  a  cannonade.  I  suppose  it  was  one 
of  the  places  almost  destroyed  in  Willoughby's 
recent  raid.  Here  we  thundered,  expecting 
arhbush  and  conflict  every  moment,  while  the 
loneliness  of  the  street  imposed  on  me  such 
a  sense  as  might  come  of  galloping  through  a 
long  cemetery  of  the  dead. 

Out  of  the  village  we  went   off  the  planks 


II 


I  f!|? 


li? 


i66 


THE  RIDE  BV  NIGHT. 


again  upon  sand.  I  began  to  suspect  that  I 
was  losing  a  good  deal  of  blood.  My  brain 
was  on  fire  with  whirling  thoughts  and  wonder 
where  all  was  to  end.  Out  of  this  daze  I  came, 
in  amazement  to  find  that  we  were  quickly 
overtaking  our  lieutenant's  thoroughbred. 

Had  he  been  hit  in  the  fray,  and  bled  to 
weakness?  I  only  know  that,  still  galloping 
while  we  gained,  llic  famous  horse  lurched  for- 
ward, almost  turned  a  somersault,  and  fell  on 
his  rider.  ^  *        " 

"  Stop  —  the  paper  !  "  shouted  Bader. 

We  drew  rein,  turned,  dismounted,  and  found 
Miller's  left  leg  under  the  big  bay's  shoulder. 
The  horse  was  quite  dead,  the  rider's  long  hair 
lay  on  the  sand,  his  face  was  white  under  the 
moon ! 

We  stopped  long  enough  to  extricate  him, 
and  he  came  to  his  senses  just  as  we  made  out 
that  his  left  leg  was  broken. 

"  Forward  !  "  he  groaned.  "  What  in  thunder 
are  you  stopped  for?  Oh,  the  despatch  !  Here  ! 
away  you  go  !     Good-bye." 


THE  RIDE  BY  NIGHT. 


167 


In  attending  to  Miller  we  had  forgotten  the 
rider  who  had  been  long  gradually  dropping 
behind.  Now  as  we  galloped  away,  —  Bader, 
Absalom  Gray,  myself,  and  Crowfoot's  riderless 
horse,  —  I  looked  behind  for  that  comrade ; 
but  he  was  not  to  be  seen  or  heard.  We  three 
were  left  of  the  eleven. 

From  the  loss  of  so  many  comrades  the 
importance  of  our  mission  seemed  huge.  With 
the  speed,  the  noise,  the  deaths,  the  strangeness 
of  the  gallop  through  that  forsaken  village,  the 
wonder  how  all  would  end,  the  increasing  belief 
that  thousands  of  lives  depended  on  our  suc- 
cessi  and  the  longing  to  win,  my  brain  was 
wild.  A  raging  desire  to  be  first  held  me,  and 
I  galloped  as  if  in  a  dream. 

Bader  led ;  the  riderless  gray  thundered 
beside  him ;  Absalom  rode  stirrup  to  stirrup 
with  me.  He  was  a  veteran  of  the  whole  war. 
Where  it  was  that  his  sorrel  rolled  over  I  do 
not  remember  at  all,  though  I  perfectly  remem- 
ber how  Absalom  sprang  up,  staggered,  shouted, 


1 68 


THE  RIDE  BY  NIGHT. 


"  My  foot  is  sprained  !  "  and  fell  as  I  turned  to 
look  at  him  and  went  racing  on. 

Then  I  heard  above  the  sound  of  our  hoofs 
the  voice  of  the  veteran  of  the  war.  Down  as 
he  was,  his  spirit  was  unbroken.  Tn  the  favorite 
song  of  the  army  his  voice  rose  clear  and  gay 
and  piercing :  — 

"  Hurrah  for  the  Union ! 
Hurrah,  boys,  hurrah  I 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom  I  " 

We  turned  our  heads  and  cheered  him  as 
we  flew,  for  there  was  something  indescribably 
inspiriting  in  the  gallant  and  cheerful  lilt  of  the 
fallen  man.  It  was  as  if  he  flung  us,  from  the 
grief  of  utter  defeat,  a  soul  unconquerable  ;  and 
I  felt  the  life  in  me  strengthened  by  the  tone. 

Old  Bader  and  ^  for  it!  He  led  by  a 
hundred  yards,  and  Crowfoot's  gray  kept  his 
stride.  Was  I  gaining  on  them?  How  was  it 
that  I  could  see  his  figure  outlined  more  clearly 
against  the  horizon?  Surely  dawn  was  not 
coming  on ! 


THE  RIDE  BY  NIGHT. 


169 


M 


No;  I  looked  round  on  a  world  of  naked 
peach-orchards,  and  corn-fields  ragged  with  last 
year's  stalks,  all  dimly  lit  by  a  moon  that 
showed  far  from  midnight  j  and  that  faint  light 
on  the  horizon  was  not  in  the  east,  but  in  the 
west.  The  truth  flashed  on  me,  —  I  was  look- 
ing at  such  an  illumination  of  the  sky  as  v/ould 
be  caused  by  the  camp-fires  of  an  army. 

"The  missing  brigade  1"  I  shouted. 

"  Or  a  Southern  division  1 "  Bader  cried. 
"  Come   on  !  " 

"  Come  on  !  "  I  was  certainly  gaining  on  him, 
but  very  slowly.  Before  the  nose  of  my  bay 
was  beyond  the  tail  of  his  roan,  the  wide  illumi- 
nations had  become  more  distinct ;  and  still 
not  a  vidette,  not  a  picket,  not  a  sound  of  the 
proximity  of  an  army. 

Bader  and  I  now  rode  side  by  side,  and 
Crowfoot's  gray  easily  kept  the  pace.  My 
horse  was  in  plain  distress,  but  Bader's  was 
nearly  done. 

"  Take  the  paper,  Adam,"  he  said  ;  "  my  roan 


I  •III 
1,1 


!„'! 


li 


fif 


170 


THE  RIDE  BY  NIGHT. 


won't  go  much  further.  Good-bye,  youngster. 
Away  you  go  !  "  and  I  drew  now  quickly  ahead. 

Still  Hader  rode  on  behind  me.  In  a  few 
minutes  he  was  considerably  behind.  Perhaps 
the  sense  of  being  alone  increased  my  feeling 
of  weakness.  Was  I  going  to  reel  out  of  the 
saddle?  Had  I  lost  so  much  blood  as  that? 
Still  I  could  hear  Bader  riding  on.  I  turned  to 
look  at  him.  Already  he  was  scarcely  visible. 
Soon  he  dropped  out  of  sight ;  but  still  I  heard 
the  laborious  pounding  of  his  desperate  horse. 

My  bay  was  gasping  horribly.  How  far  was 
that  faintly  yellow  sky  ahead?  It  might  be 
two,  it  might  be  five  miles.  Were  Union  or 
Southern  soldiers  beneath  it?  Could  it  be 
conceived  that  no  troops  of  the  enemy  w^re 
between  me  and  it? 

Never  mind  ;  my  orders  were  clear.  I  rode 
straight  on,  and  I  was  still  riding  straight  on, 
mnrking  no  increase  in  the  distress  of  my  bay, 
when  he  stopped  as  if  shot,  staggered,  fell  on 
his  knees,  tried  to  rise,  rolled  to  his  side, 
groaned  and  lay. 


\ 


THE  RIDE  BY  NIGHT. 


171 


1/ 


I  was  so  weak  I  could  not  clear  myself.  I 
remember  my  right  spur  catching  in  my  saddle- 
cloth as  I  tried  to  free  my  foot ;  then  I  pitched 
forward  and  fell.  Not  yet  senseless,  I  clutched 
at  my  breast  for  the  despatch,  meaning  to  tear 
it  to  pieces ;  but  there  my  brain  failed,  and  in 
full  view  of  the  goal  of  the  night  I  lay 
unconscious. 

When  I  came  to,  I  rose  on  my  left  elbow, 
and  looked  around.  Near  my  feet  my  poor 
bay  lay,  stone  dead.  Crowfoot's  gray  !  —  where 
was  Crowfoot's  gray?  It  flashed  on  me  that  I 
might  mount  the  fresh  horse  and  ride  on.  But 
where  was  the  ^ray?  As  I  peered  round  I 
heard  faintly  the  sound  of  a  galloper.  Was  he 
coming  my  way  ?  No ;  faintly  and  more  faintly 
I  heard  the  hoofs. 

Had  the  gray  gone  on  then,  without  the 
despatch?  I  clutched  at  my  breast.  My  coat 
was  unbuttoned  —  the  paper  was  gone  ! 

Well,  sir,  I  cheered.  My  God  !  but  it  was 
comforting   to  hear  those  far-away  hoofs,  and 


w 

1 


172 


T//£  RIDE  BV  Nl. 


" 


!-r 


know  that  Bader  must  have  come  up,  taken  the 
papers,  and  mounted  Crowfoot's  gray,  still  good 
for  a  ten-mile  ride  1  The  despatch  was  gone 
forward ;  we  had  not  all  fallen  in  vain ;  maybe 
the  brigades  would  be  saved ! 

How  purely  the  stars  shone  !  When  I  stifled 
my  groaning  they  seemed  to  tell  me  of  a  great 
peace  to  come.  How  still  was  the  night !  and 
I  thought  of  the  silence  of  the  multitudes  who 
had  died  for  the  Union.  't 

Now  the  galloping  had  quite  died  away. 
There  was  not  a  sound,  —  a  slight  breeze  blew, 
but  there  were  no  leaves  to  rustle.  I  put  my 
head  down  on  the  neck  of  my  dead  horse. 
Extreme  fatigue  was  benumbing  the  pain  of  my 
now  swelling  arm;  perhaps  sleep  was  near, 
perhaps  I  was  swooning. 

But  a  sound  came  that  somewhat  revived  me. 
Far,  low,  joyful,  it  crept  on  the  air.  I  sat  up, 
wide  awake.  The  sound,  at  first  faint,  died  as 
the  little  breeze  fell,  then  grew  in  the  lull,  and 
came  ever  more  clearly  as  the  wind  arose.     It 


THE  RIDE  BY  NIGHT. 


173 


was  a  sound  never  to  be  forgotten,  —  the  sound 
of  the  distant  cheering  of  thousands  of  men. 

Then  I  knew  that  Bader  had  galloped  into 
the  Union  lines,  delivered  the  despatch,  and 
told  a  story  which  had  quickly  passed  through 
wakeful  brigades. 

Bader  I  never  saw  again,  nor  Lieutenant 
Miller,  nor  any  man  with  whom  I  rode  that 
night.  When  I  came  to  my  senses  I  was  in 
hospital  at  City  Point.  Thence  I  went  home 
invalided.  No  surgeon,  no  nurse,  no  soldier 
at  the  hospital  could  tell  me  of  my  regiment, 
or  how  or  why  I  was  where  I  was.  All  they 
could  tell  me  was  that  Richmond  was  taken, 
the  army  far  away  in  pursuit  of  Lee,  and  a 
rumor  flying  that  the  great  commander  of  the 
South  had  surrendered  near  Appomattox  Court 
House.  , 


;pj 


"  DRAFTED  " 

HARRY  WALLBRIDGE,  awaking  with  a 
sense  of  some  alarming  sound,  listened 
intently  in  the  darkness,  seeing  overhead  the 
canvas  roof  feintly  outlined,  the  darker  stretch 
of  its  ridge-pole,  its  two  thin  slanting  rafters, 
and  the  gable  ends  of  the  winter  hut.  He  could 
not  hear  the  small,  fine  drizzle  from  an  atmos- 
phere surcharged  with  water,  nor  anything  but 
the  drip  from  canvas  to  trench,  the  rustling  of 
hay  bunched  beneath  his  head,  the  regular 
breathing  of  his  "  buddy,"  Corporal  Bader,  and 
the  stamping  of  horses  in  stables.  But  when  a 
soldier  in  a  neighboring  tent  called  indistin- 
guishably  in  the  accents  of  nightmare,  Bader's 
breathing  quieted,  and  in  the  lull  Harry  fancied 
the   soaked    air   weighted   faintly   with   steady 


If' 


DRAFTED.''^ 


'  175 


picket-firing.  A  month  with  the  53d  Pennsylva- 
nia Veteran  Volunteer  Cavalry  had  not  quite  dis- 
abused the  young  recruit  of  his  schoolboy  belief 
that  the  men  of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  must 
live  constantly  within  sound  of  the  out-posts. 

Harry  sat  up  to  hearken  better,  and  then  con- 
cluded that  he  had  mistaken  for  musketry  the 
crackle  of  haystalks  under  his  poncho  sheet. 
Beneath  him  the  round  poles  of  his  bed 
sagged  as  he  drew  up  his  knees  and  gathered 
about  his  shoulders  the  gray  blanket  damp  from 
the  spray  of  heavy  rain  against  the  canvas  ear- 
lier in  the  night.  Soon,  with  slow  dawn's 
approach,  he  could  make  out  the  dull  white  of 
his  carbine  and  sabre  against  the  mud-plastered 
chimney.  In  that  drear  dimness  the  boy  shiv- 
ered, with  a  sense  of  misery  rather  than  from 
cold,  and  yearned  as  only  sleepy  youth  can  for 
the  ease  of  a  true  bed  and  dry  warm  swooning 
to  slumber.  He  was  sustained  by  no  mature 
sense  that  this  too  would  pass ;  it  was  with  a 
certain  bodily  despair  that  he  felt  chafed  and 


i:.y:H\ 


■■  :l 


176 


"drafted:' 


w 


compressed  by  his  rough  garments,  and  pitied 
himself,  thinking  how  his  mother  would  cry  if 
she  could  see  him  crouched  so  wretchedly 
that  wet  March  morning,  pressed  all  the  more 
into  loneliness  by  the  regular  breathing  of  vete- 
ran Bader  in  the  indifference  of  deep  sleep. 

Harry's  vision  of  his  mother  coming  into  his 
room,  shading  her  candle  with  her  hand  to  see 
if  he  were  asleep,  passed  away  as  a  small  gust 
came,  shaking  the  canvas,  for  he  was  instantly 
alert  with  a  certainty  that  the  breeze  had  borne 
a  strong  rolling  of  musketry. 

"  Bader,  Bader  !  "  he  said.     "  Bader  !  " 

"  Can't  you  shut  up,  you  Wallbridge?  "  came 
Orderly  Sergeant  Gravely's  sharp  tones  from  the 
next  tent. 

"What's  wrong  with  you,  Harry,  boy?" 
asked  Bader,  turning. 

*'  I  thought  I  heard  heavy  firing  closer  than 
the  picket  Hnes ;  twice  now  I  've  thought  I 
heard  it." 

"Oh,    I   guess   not,    Harry.     The  Johnnies 


"DRAFTED^ 


177 


won't  come  out  no  such  night  as  this.  Keep 
quiet,  or  you  '11  have  the  sergeant  on  top  of  you. 
Better  lie  clown  and  try  to  sleep,  buddy ;  the 
bugles  will  call  morning  soon  now." 

Again  Harry  fell  to  his  revery  of  home,  and 
his  vision  became  that  of  the  special  evening  on 
which  his  boyish  wish  to  go  to  the  war  had,  for 
the  family's  sake,  become  resolve.  He  saw  his 
mother's  spectacled  and  lamp-lit  face  as  she, 
leaning  to  the  table,  read  in  the  familiar  Bible ; 
little  Fred  and  Mary,  also  facing  the  table's 
central  lamp,  bent  sleepy  heads  over  their 
school-books ;  the  father  sat  in  the  rocking- 
chair,  with  his  right  hand  on  the  paper  he  had 
laid  down,  and  gazed  gloomily  at  the  coals  fallen 
below  the  front  doors  of  the  wood -burning 
stove.  Harry  dreamed  iumself  back  in  his  own 
chair,  looking  askance,  and  feeling  sure  his 
father  was  inwardiv  groaning  over  the  absence 
of  Jack,  the  elaost  son.  Then  nine  o'clock 
struck,  and  Fred  and  Mary  began  to  put  their 
books  away  in  preparation  for  bed. 


i. 


I! 


B'«I  :'l 


fiH 


t-  • 


m: 


m 


'■5lll 


V 


178 


''  DRAFTEDr 


"Wait  a  little,  children,"  Mrs.  Wallbridge 
said,  serene  in  tone  from  her  devotional  read- 
ing. "  Father  wants  that  I  should  tell  you  some- 
thing. You  must  n't  feel  bad  about  it.  It 's 
that  we  may  soon  go  out  West.  Your  Uncle 
Ezra  is  doing  well  in  Minnesota.  Aunt  Elvira 
says  so  in  her  letter  that  came  to-day." 

"  It 's  this  way,  children,"  said  Mr.  Wall- 
bridge,  ready  to  explain,  now  that  the  subject 
was  opened.  "  Since  ever  your  brother  Jack 
went  away  South,  the  store  expenses  have  been 
too  heavy.  It 's  near  five  years  now  he  's  been 
gone.  There  's  a  sheaf  of  notes  coming  due 
the  third  of  next  month ;  twice  they  've  been 
renewed,  and  the  Philadelphia  men  say  they  '11 
close  me  up  this  time  sure.  If  I  had  LMght 
hundred  dollars  —  but  it 's  no  use  talking ; 
we  '11  just  have  to  let  them  take  wliat  we  've  got. 
Times  have  been  bad  right  along  around  here, 
anyhow,  with  new  competition,  and  so  many 
farmers  gone  to  the  war,  and  more  gone  AV^est.  If 
Jack  had  stopped  to  heme  —  but  T  've  had  to  pay 


€  I! 


''DRAFTEDV 


179 


two  clerks  to  do  his  work,  and  then  they,  don't 
take  any  interest  in  the  business.  Mind,  I  'm 
not  blaming  Jack,  poor  fellow,  —  he  'd  a  right  to 
go  where  he  'd  get  more  'n  his  keep,  and  be 
able  to  lay  up  something  for  himself,  —  but 
what 's  become  of  him,  God  knows ;  and  such 
a  smart,  good  boy  as  he  was !  He  'd  got  fond 
of  New  Orleans,  —  1  guess  some  nice  girl  there, 
maybe,  was  the  reason ;  and  there  he  'd  stay 
after  the  war  began,  and  now  it 's  two  years  and 
more  since  we  Ve  heard  from  him.  Dead, 
maybe,  or  maybe  they  'd  put  him  in  jail,  for  he 
said  he  'd  never  join  the  Confederates,  nor  fight 
against  them  either  —  he  felt  that  way  —  North 
and  South  was  all  the  same  to  him.  And  so 
he  's  gone ;  and  I  don't  see  my  way  now  at  all. 
Ma,  if  it  was  n't  for  my  lame  leg,  I  'd  take  the 
bounty.  It  'd  be  somethhig  for  you  and  the 
children  after  the  store  's  gone." 

"  Sho,  pa  !  don't  talk  that  way  !  You  're  too 
down-hearted.  It'll  all  come  right,  with  the 
Lord's    help,"    said    Harry's    mother.      How 


:i   I 


I  'I 


!     iH 


\        ■ 


Ml 


^111  lllfiili!' 


m,. 


180 


''DRAFTED" 


clearly  he,  in  the  damp  cold  tent,  could  see  her 
kind  looks  as  she  pushed  up  her  spectacles  and 
beamed  on  her  husband ;  how  distinctly,  in  the 
still  dim  dawn,  he  heard  her  soothing  tones  ! 

It  w::c  that  evening's  talk  which  had  sent 
Harry,  tio  young,  to  the  front.  Three  village 
boys,  little  older  than  he,  had  already  concrived 
to  enlist.  Every  time  he  saw  the  Flag  droop- 
ing, he  thought  shame  of  himself  to  be  absent 
from  the  ranks  of  its  upholders ;  and  now,  just 
as  he  was  believing  himself  big  and  old  enough 
to  serve,  he  conceived  that  duty  to  his  parents 
distinctly  enjoined  him  to  go.  So  ni  the  night, 
without  leave-taking  or  consent  of  his  parents, 
he  departed.  The  combined  Federal,  State, 
and  city  bounties  offered  at  Philadelphia 
amounted  to  nine  hundred  dollars  cash  that 
dreadful  winter  before  Richmond  fell,  and 
Harry  sent  the  money  home  triumphantly  in 
time  to  pay  his  father's  notes  and  save  the  store. 

Wiiile  the  young  soldier  thought  it  all  over, 
c:arbine  and  f  bre  came    out   more   and  more 


•"""•* -^-■■-■^ 


**  DRAFTED.'* 


i8i 


distinctly  outlined  above  the  mud- plastered 
fireplace.  The  drizzle  had  ceased,  the  drip  into 
the  trench  was  almost  finished,  intense  stillness 
ruled ;  Harry  half  expected  to  hear  cocks  crow 
from  out  such  silence. 

Listening  for  them,  his  dreamy  mind  brooded 
over  both  hosts,  in  a  vision  even  as  wide  as  the 
vast  spread  of  the  Republic  in  which  they  lay  as 
two  huddles  of  miserable  men.  For  what  were 
they  all  about  him  this  woful,  wet  night?  they  all 
fain,  as  he,  for  home  and  industry  and  comfort. 
What  delusion  held  them?  How  could  it  be 
that  they  could  not  all  march  away  and  separate, 
and  the  cruel  war  be  over?  Harry  caught  his 
breath  at  the  idea,  —  it  seemed  so  natural,  simple, 
easy,  and  good  a  solution.  Becoming  absorbed 
in  the  fancy,  tired  of  listening,  and  soothed  by 
the  silence,  he  was  falling  asleep  as  he  sat, 
when  a  heavy  weight  seemed  to  fall,  far  away. 
Another  —  another  —  the  fourth  had  the  rum- 
ble of  distant  tliunder,  and  seemed  followed  by 
a  concussion  of  the  air. 


tvi 


illlll 


182 


"  drafted:* 


"  Hey —  Big  Guns  !  What 's  up  toward  City 
Point ?"  cried  Bader,  sitting  up.  "I  tell  you 
they  're  at  it.  It  can't  be  so  far  away  as  But- 
ler. What?  On  the  left  too  !  That  was  toward 
Hatcher's  Run  !  Harry,  the  rebs  are  out  in  ear- 
nest !  I  guess  you  did  hear  the  pickets  trying 
to  stop  'em.  What  a  morning  !  Ha  —  Fort 
Hell !    see  that !  " 

The  outside  world  was  diml  '  lighted  up  for  a 
moment.  In  the  intensified  darkness  that 
followed  Bader's  voice  was  drowned  by  the 
crash  of  a  great  gun  from  the  neighboring  fort. 
Flash,  crash  — flash,  crash  — flash,  crash  suc- 
ceeded rapidly.  Then  the  intervals  of  Fort 
Hell's  fire  lengthened  to  the  regular  periods  for 
loading,  and  between  her  roars  were  heard  the 
sullen  boom  of  more  distant  guns,  while  through 
all  the  tumult  ran  a  fierce  undertone,  —  the 
infernal  hurrying  of  musketry  along  the  imme- 
diate front. 

"  The  Johnnies  must  have  got  in  close  some- 
how," cried  Bader.     "  Hey,  Sergeant?" 


W 


"DRAFTED." 


183 


"  Yes,"  shouted  Gravely.  "  Scooped  up  the 
pickets  and  supports  too  in  the  rain,  I  guess. 
Turn  out,  boys,  turn  out  1  there  Ml  be  a  wild  day. 
Kid  !     Where  's  the  Kid  ?      Kid  Sylvester  !  " 

"  Here  !  All  right,  Barney ;  I  '11  be  out  in 
two  shakes,"  shouted  the  bugler. 

"  Hurry,  then  1  I  can  hear  the  Colonel  shout- 
ing already.  Man,  listen  to  that !  "  —  as  four  of 
Fort  Hell's  guns  crashed  almost  simultaneously. 
"  Brownie  !     Greasy  Cook  !     O  Brownie  !  " 

"  Here  1 "  shouted  the  cook. 

"Get  your  fire  started  right  away,  and  see 
what  salt  horse  and  biscuit  you  can  scare  up. 
Maybe  we  '11  have  time  for  a  snack." 

"  Turn  out,  Company  K  !  "  shouted  Lieuten- 
ant Bradley,  running  down  from  the  officers' 
quarters.  "  Where  's  the  commissary  sergeant? 
There  ?  —  all  right  —  give  out  feed  right  away ! 
Get  your  oats,  men,  and  feed  instantly  !  We 
mriy  have  time.  Hullo  1  here  's  the  General's 
orderly." 

As  the   trooper  galloped,  in   a   mud-storm, 


1 84 


''drafted:' 


II! 


«'':'• 


m 

|ISi 


across  the  parade  ground,  a  group  of  officers  ran 
out  behind  the  Colonel  from  ihe  screen  of  pine 
Hiiplings  about  Regimental  Headquarters.  The 
orderly  gave  the  Colonel  but  a  word,  and, 
wiieeiing,  was  off  again  as  '  Boot  and  saddle" 
blared  from  the  buglers,  who  had  now  assem- 
bled on  I'arade. 

"  ,But  leave  the  bits  out  —  let  your  horses 
feed  1 "  cried  the  Lieutenant,  running  down  again. 
**  Wc  're  not  to  march  till  further  orders." 

Beyond  the  screen  of  pines  Harry  could  see 
the  tall  canvas  ridges  of  the  officers'  cabins 
lighted  up.  Now  all  the  tents  of  the  regiment, 
row  behind  row,  were  faintly  luminous,  and  the 
renewed  drizzle  of  the  dawn  was  a  little  light- 
ened in  every  direction  by  the  canvas-hidden 
candles  of  infantry  regiments,  the  glare  of 
numeroiis  fires  already  started,  and  sparks 
showering  up  from  the  cook-houses  of  company 
after  company. 

Soon  in  the  cloudy  sky  the  cannonade  rolled 
about  in  broad  day,  which  was  still  so  gray  that 


»  DRAFTED." 


>8S 


long  wide  flashes  of  flame  could  be  seen  to 
spring  far  out  before  every  report  from  the  guns 
of  Fort  Hell,  and  in  the  haze  but  few  of  the 
rebel  shells  shrieking  along  their  high  curve 
could  be  clearly  seen  bursting  over  Hancock's 
cheering  men.  Indistinguishably  blent  were 
the  sounds  of  hu^  on  the  move,  field-guns 
pounding  to  the  ...a\i,  troops  shouting,  the 
clink  and  rattle  of  metal,  officers  calling,  bugles 
blaring,  drums  rolling,  mules  screaming,  — 
all  heard  as  a  running  accompaniment  to  the 
cannon  heavily  punctuating  the  multitudi- 
nous din. 

"  Fwat  sinse  in  the  ould  man  bodderin'  us?  " 
grumbled  Corporal  Kennedy,  a  tall  Fenian  dra- 
goon from  the  British  army.  "  Sure,  ain't  it  as 
plain  as  the  sun  —  and  faith  the  same 's  not 
plain  this  dirthy  mornin'  —  that  there  's  no  work 
for  cavalry  the  day,  barrin'  it 's  escortin'  the 
doughboys*  prisoners,  if  they  take  any?  —  bad 
'cess  to  the  job.  Sure  it's  an  infantry  fight,  and 
must  be,  wid  the  field-guns   helpin,'   and  the 


ii 


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IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


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1.25 

Photographic 

Sdences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


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*'  drafted:* 


siege  pieces  boomin'  away  over  the  throops  in 
the  mud  betwigst  our  own  breastworks  and  the 
inner  line  of  our  forts. 

"Oh,  by  this  and  by  that,"  the  corporal 
grumbled  on,  "  ould  Lee 's  not  the  gintleman  I 
tuk  him  for  at  all,  at  all,  —  discomfortin'  us  in  the 
rain,  —  and  yesterday  an  illigant  day  for  fightin" 
Could  n't  he  wait,  like  the  dacint  ould  boy  he 's 
reported,  for  a  dhry  mornin',  instead  av  turnin. 
his  byes  out  in  tl.e  shlush  and  destroyin'  me 
chanst  av  breakfast?  It 's  spring  chickens  I  'd 
ordhered."  ' 

"  You  may  get  up  to  spring-chicken  country 
soon,  now,"  said  Bader.  "  I  'm  thinking  this  is 
near  the  end ;  it 's  the  last  assault  that  Lee 
will  ever  deliver."  ' 

"  Faith,  I  dunno,"  said  the  corporal ;  "  that 's 
what  we  *ve  been  saying  sinst  last  fall,  but  the 
shtay  of  them  Johnnies  bates  Banagher  and  the 
prophets.  Hoo  —  ow  !  by  the  powers  !  did  yon 
hear  them  yell  ?  Fwat  ?  The  saints  be  wid  us  1 
who  'd  '  a '  thought  it  possible  ?    Byes  1    Bader  I 


ill 

IP  ihl 

I! 


" DRAFTED » 


187 


Harry  !  luk  at  the  Johnnies  swarmin'  up  tlie  face 
of  Hell ! " 

Off  there  Harry  could  dimly  see,  rising  over 
the  near  horizon  made  by  tents,  a  straggling 
rysh  of  men  up  the  steep  slope,  while  the  rebel 
yell  came  shrill  from  a  multitude  behind  on  the 
level  ground  that  was  hidden  from  the  place 
occupied  by  the  cavalry  regiment.  In  the  next 
moment  the  force  mounting  Fort  Hell's  slope 
fell  away,  some  lying  where  shot  down,  some 
rolling,  some  running  and  stumbling  in  heaps ; 
then  a  tremendous  musketry  and  field-gun  fire 
growled  to  and  fro  under  the  heavy  smoke  round 
and  about  and  out  in  front  of  the  embrasures, 
which  had  never  ceased  their  regular  discharge 
J  over  the  heads  of  the  fort's  defenders  and  imme- 
diate assailants. 

Suddenly  Harry  noted  a  slackening  of  the 
battle ;  it  gradually  but  soon  dropped  away  to 
nothing,  and  now  no  sound  of  small-arms  in  any 
direction  was  heard  in  the  lengthening  intervals 
of  reports  from  the  siege  pieces  far  and  near. 


i88 


"  DRA  FTED.'' 


"  And  SO  that 's  the  end  of  it,"  said  Kennedy. 
"  Sure  it  was  hot  work  for  a  while  !  Faix,  I 
thought  onct  the  doughboy?  was  nappin'  too 
long,  and  ould  Hell  would  be  bullyin'  away  at 
ourselves.  Now,  thin,  can  we  have  a  bite  in 
paice  ?  I  '11  shtart  wid  a  few  sausages,  Brownie, 
and  you  may  send  in  the  shpring  chickens  wid 
some  oyshters  the  second  coorse.  No !  Oh, 
by  the  powers,  't  is  too  mane  to  lose  a  breakfast 
like  that ! "  and  Corporal  Kennedy  shook  his 
fist  at  the  group  of  buglers  calling  the  regiment 
to  parade. 

In  ten  minutes  the  Fifty-third  had  formed  in 
column  of  companies.  "  Old  Jimmy,"  their 
Colonel,  had  galloped  down  at  them  and  once 
along  their  front ;  then  the  command,  forming 
fours  from  the  right  front,  moved  off  at  a  trot 
through  the  mud  in  long  procession. 

"  Did  n't  I  know  it?  "  said  Kennedy ;  "  it 's 
escortin'  the  doughboys'  prisoners,  that's  all 
we  're  good  ^or  this  outrageous  day.  Oh,  wirra, 
wirrasthru      ii'olice  duty !  and  this  calls  itself 


\ 


X 


**DRAFTEDV 


189 


a  cavalry  rigiment.  Mounted  Police  duty, — 
escortin'  doughboys'  prisoners  !  Faix,  I  might 
as  well  be  wid  Her  Majesty's  dhragoons, 
thramplin'  down  the  flesh  and  blood  of  me 
in  poor  ould  Oireland.  Begor,  Harry,  me 
bhy,  it's  a  mane  job  to  be  setting  you  at, 
and  this  the  first  day  ye  're  mounted  to  save 
the  Union!" 

"  Stop  coddin'  the  boy.  Corporal,"  said  Bader, 
angrily.  '*  You  can't  think  how  an  American 
boy  feels  about  this  war." 

"  An  Amerikin  !  —  an  Amerikin,  is  it  ?  Let 
me  insthruct  ye  thin,  Misther  Bader,  that  I  'm 
as  good  an  Amerikin  as  the  next  man.  Och,  be 
jabers,  me  that 's  been  in  the  color  you  see  ever 
since  the  Prisident  first  called  for  men  !  It 
was  for  a  three  months'  dance  he  axed  us  first. 
Me,  that 's  re-enlishted  twice,  don't  know  the 
feelin's  of  an  Amerikin  !  What  am  I  here  for? 
Not  poverty !  sure  I  'd  enough  of  that  before 
ever  I  seen  Ameriky !  What  am  I  wallopin' 
through  the  mud  for  this  mornin'  ?  " 


IQO 


"DRAFTED" 


"  It 's  your  trade,  Kennedy,"  said  Bader,  with 
disgust. 

"  Be  damned  to  you,  man !  "  said  the  cor- 
poral, sternly.  "  When  I  touched  fut  in  New 
York,  did  n't  I  swear  that  I  'd  never  dhraw 
swoord  more,  barrin'  it  was  agin  the  ould  red 
tyrant  and  oprissor  of  me  counthry  ?  Was  n't  I 
glad  to  be  dhrivin'  me  own  hack  next  year  in 
Philamedink  like  a  gintleman?  Oh,  the  paice 
and  the  indipindence  of  it !  But  what  cud  I  do 
when  the  counthry  that  tuk  me  and  was  good  to 
me  wanted  an  ould  dhragoon  ?  An  Amerikin, 
ye  say  !  Faith,  the  heart  of  me  is  Amerikin,  if 
I  'ra  a  bog  throtter  by  the  tongue.  Mind  that 
now,  me  bould  man  !  " 

Harry  heard  without  heeding  as  the  horses 
spattered  on.  Still  wavered  in  his  ears  the 
sounds  of  the  dawn ;  still  he  saw  the  ghostlike 
forms  of  Americans  in  gray  tumbling  back  from 
their  rush  against  the  sacred  flag  that  had 
drooped  so  sadly  over  the  smoke ;  and  still,  far  i 
away  beyond  all  this  puddled   and  cumbered 


**drafted:* 


191 


ground  the  dreamy  boy  saw  millions  of  white 
American  faces,  all  haggard  for  news  of  the 
armies  —  some  looking  South,  some  North,  yearn- 
ing for  the  Peace  that  had  so  long  ago  been 
the  boon  of  the  Nation. 

Now  the  regiment  was  upon  the  red  clay  of 
the  dead  fight,  and  brought  to  halt  in  open 
columns.  After  a  little  they  moved  off  again  in 
fours,  and,  dropping  into  single  file,  surrounded 
some  thousands  of  disarmed  men,  the  remnant 
of  the  desperate  brigades  that  Lee  had  flung 
through  the  night  across  three  lines  of  breast- 
works at  the  great  fort  they  had  so  nearly 
stormed.  Poor  drenched,  shivering  Johnnies  ! 
there  they  stood,  not  a  few  of  them  in  blue 
overcoats,  but  mostly  in  butternut,  generally 
tattered ;  some  barefoot,  some  with  feet  bound 
in  ragged  sections  of  blanket,  many  with  toes 
and  skin  showing  through  crazy  boots  lashed 
on  with  strips  of  cotton  or  with  cord ;  many 
stoutly  on  foot,  streaming  blood  from  head 
wounds. 


! 

'if 


; 


192 


"DRaPTEDV 


Some  lay  groaning  in  the  mud,  while  their 
comrades  helped  Union  surgeons  to  bind  or 
amputate.  Here  and  there  groups  huddled 
together  in  earnest  talk,  or  listened  to  comrades 
gesticulating  and  storming  as  they  recounted 
incidents  of  the  long  charge.  But  far  the 
greater  number  faced  outward,  at  gaze  upon  the 
cavalry  guard,  and,  silently  munching  thick  flat 
cakes  of  corn-bread,  stared  into  the  faces  of  the 
horsemen.  Harry  Wallbridge,  brought  to  the 
halt,  faced  half  round  in  the  saddle,  and  looked 
with  quick  beatings  of  pity  far  and  wide  over 
the  disorderly  crowd  of  weather-worn  men. 

"  It 's  a  Louisiana  brigade,"  said  Bader. 

"  Fifty-three,  P.  V.  V.  C,"  spoke  a  prisoner, 
as  if  in  reply,  reading  the  letters  about  the  little 
crossed  brass  sabres  on  the  Union  hats.  "  Say, 
you  men  from  Pennsylvany?" 

"Yes,  Johnny;  we  come  down  to  wake  up 
Dixie." 

"  I  reckon  we  got  the  start  at  wakin'  you  this 
morninV  drawled  the  Southerner.    "  But  say,  — 


V 


*' DRAFTED,'* 


193 


there  's  one  of  our  boys  lyin'  dyin'  over  yonder ; 
his  folks  lives  in  Pennsylvany.  Mebbe  some  of 
you  'ud  know  'em." 

"  What's  his  name?"  asked  Bader. 

"  Wallbridge  —  Johnny  Wallbridge." 

"Why,  Harry — hold  on! — you  ain't  the 
only  Wallbridges  there  is.  What 's  up?  "  cried 
Bader,  as  the  boy  half  reeled,  half  clambered 
from  his  saddle. 

"  Hold  on,  Harry  ! "  cried  Corporal  Kennedy. 

"  Halt  there,  Wallbridge  !  "  shouted  Sergeant 
Gravely. 

"  Stop  that  man  !  "  roared  Lieutenant  Bradley. 

But,  calling,  "He's  my  brother!"  Harry, 
catching  up  his  sabre  as  he  ran,  followed  the 
Southerner,  who  had  instantly  divined  the  situa- 
tion. The  forlorn  prisoners  made  ready  way 
for  them,  and  closing  in  behind,  Siiccched  in 
solid  array  about  the  scene. 

"  It 's  not  Jack,"  said  the  boy ;  but  something 
in  the  look  of  the  dying  man  drew  him  on  to 
kneel  in  the  mud.     "  Is  \tyou,  Jack?    Oh,  now 

13 


Ij  III 


194 


"LRAFTED.'* 


I   know  you  !      Jack,  I  'm   Harry !  don't  you 

know  me?     I'm  Harry — your  brother  Harry." 

« 
The  Southern  soldier  stared  rigidly  at  the  boy, 

seeming  to  grow  paler  with  the  recollections  that 

he  rtruggled  for. 

"  What 's  your  name  ?  "  he  asked  very  faintly. 

"  Harry  Wallbridge  —  I  'm  your  brother." 

"  Harry  Wallbridge  !  Why,  I  'm  Jo/in  Wall- 
bridge.  Did  you  say  Harry?  Not  Harry !^^ 
he  shrieked  hoarsely.  "  No ;  Hafry  's  only  a 
little  fellow  ! "  He  paused,  and  looked  medi- 
tatively into  the  boy*s  eyes.  "  It 's  nearly  five 
years  I  've  been  gone,  —  he  was  near  twelve 
then.  Boys,"  lifting  his  head  painfully  and  cast- 
ing his  look  slowly  round  upon  his  comrades, "  I 
know  him  by  the  eyes  ;  yes,  he 's  my  brother ! 
Let  me  speak  to  him  alone  —  stand  back  a 
bit,"  and  at  once  the  men  pushed  backward 
into  the  form  of  a  wide  circle.  .  ' 

"  Put  down  your  head,  Harry.  Kiss  me  1 
Kiss  me  again  !  —  how  's  mother?  Ah,  I  was 
afraid  she  might  be  dead  —  don't  tell  her  I  'm 


" DRAFTEDV 


195 


>>i 


dead,  Harry."  He  groaned  with  the  pain  of 
the  groin  wound.  "  Closer,  Harry ;  I  Ve  got  to 
tell  you  this  first  —  maybe  it 's  all  I  've  time  to 
tell.  Say,  Harry,"  —  he  began  to  gasp,  —  "  they 
didn't  ought  to  have  killed  me,  the  Union 
soldiers  did  n't.     I  never  fired  —  high  enough 

—  all  these  years.  They  drafted  me,  Harry  — 
tell  mother  that  —  down  in  New  Orleans  —  and 
I  —  could  n't  get  away.  Ai  —  ai !  how  it 
hurts  !  I  must  die  soon  's  I  can  tell  you.  I 
wanted  to  come  home  —  and  help  father  — 
how's  poor  father,  Harry?  Doing  well  now? 
Oh,  I  'm  glad  of  that  —  and  the  baby  ?  there  's 
a  new  baby  !    Ah,  yes,  I  '11  never  see  it,  Harry." 

His  eyes  closed,  the  pain  seemed  to  leave 
him,  and  he  lay  almost  smiling  happily  as  his 
brother's  tears  fell  on  his  muddy  and  blood- 
clotted  face.  As  if  from  a  trance  his  eyes 
opened,  and  he  spoke  anxiously  but  calmly. 

"  You  '11  be  sure  to  tell  them  I  was  drafted 

—  conscripted,  you  understand.  And  I  never 
fired  at  any  of  us  —  of  you  —  tell  all  the  boys 


\ 


196 


'*D/iAFrED,» 


that'^     Again  the  flame  of  life  went  down,  and 

again  flickered  up  in  pain. 

"  Harry  —  you  '11  stay  by  father  —  and  help 

him,  won't  you?    This  cruel  war  —  is  almost 

over.     Don't  cry.      Kiss  me.      Say  —  do  you 
remember  —  the  old  times  we  had  —  fishing? 

Kiss    me  again,   Harry  —  brother  in   blue  — 

you're    on  —  my  side.     Oh   I   wish  —  I   had 

time  —  to  tell  you.      Come  close  —  put  your 

arms  around  —  my  neck  —  it 's   old   times  — 

again."     And  now  the  wound  tortured  him  for 

a  while  beyond  speech.      "You're  with  me, 

aren't  you,  Harry? 

"  Well,  there 's  this,"  he  gasped  on,  "  about 
my  chums  —  they  've  been  as  good  and  kind  — 
marching,  us  all  wet  and  cold  together  —  and  it 
was  n't  their  fault.  If  they  had  known  —  how  I 
wanted  —  to  be  shot — for  the  Union  1  It  was  so 
hard  —  to  be  —  on  the  wrong  side  1   But  —  " 

He  lifted  his  head  and  stared  wildly  at  his 
brother,  screamed  rapidly,  as  if  summoning  all 
his  life   for  the   effort  to   explain,   "  Drafted, 


\ 


\ 


.   t 


J 


''DRAFTED.'* 


197 


drafted ^  drafted — Harry,  tell  mother  and 
father  that,  I  was  drafted.  O  God,  O  God, 
what  suffering  !  Both  sides  —  I  was  on  both 
sides  all  the  time.  I  loved  them  all,  North 
and  South,  all,  —  but  the  Union  most.  O  God, 
it  was  so  hard  !  " 

His  head  fell  back,  his  eyes  closed,  and 
Harry  thought  it  was  the  end.  But  once  more 
Jack  opened  his  blue  eyes,  and  slowly  said  in  a 
steady,  clear,  anxious  voice,  "  Mind  you  tell 
them  I  never  fired  high  enough  !  "  Then  he  lay 
still  in  Harry's  arms,  breathing  fainter  and 
fainter  till  no  motion  was  on  his  lips,  nor  in  his 
heart,  nor  any  tremor  in  the  hands  that  lay  in 
the  hand  of  his  brother  in  blue. 

"Come,  Harry,"  said  Rader,  stooping  ten- 
derly to  the  boy,  "  the  order  is  to  march.  He  's 
past  helping  now.  It 's  no  use ;  you  must  leave 
him  here  to  God.  Come,  boy,  the  head  of 
the  column  is  moving  already." 

Mounting  his  horse,  Harry  looked  across  to 
Jack's  form.     For  the  first  time  in  two  years 


I 


198 


''DRAFTED.'* 


the  famous  Louisiana  brigade  trudged  on  with- 
out their  unwilling  comrade.  There  he  lay, 
alone,  in  the  Union  lines,  under  the  rain,  his 
marching  done,  a  figure  of  eternal  peace ;  while 
Harry,  looking  backward  till  he  could  no  longer 
distinguish  his  brother  from  the  clay  of  the 
field,  rode  dumbly  on  and  on  beside  the  down- 
cast procession  of  men  in  gray. 


V 


A  TURKEY  APIECE. 


1 


NOT  long  ago  I  was  searching  files  of  New 
York  papers  for  1864,  when  my  eye 
caught  the  headline,  "Thanksgiving  Dinner 
for  the  Army."  I  had  shared  that  feast.  The 
words  brought  me  a  vision  of  a  cavalry  bri- 
gade in  winter  quarters  before  Petersburg;  of 
the  three- miles- dismnt  and  dim  steeples  of  the 
besieged  city;  of  rows  and  rows  of  canvas- 
covered  huts  sheltering  the  infantry  corps  that 
stretched  interminably  away  toward  the  Army 
of  the  James.  I  fancied  I  could  hear  again  the 
gveat  guns  of  "  Fort  Hell  "  infrequently  punctu- 
ating the  far-away  picket- firing. 

Rain,  rain,  and  rain  !  How  it  fell  on  red 
Virginia  that  November  of  '64  !  How  it  wore 
away  alertness  !      The   infantry- men  —  whom 


If.  *W: 
t-  ill  U 


m 


1 


•■  \ 


200 


A    TURKEY  APIECE, 


we  used  to  call  "doughboys,"  for  there  was 
always  a  pretended  feud  between  the  riders  and 
the  trudgers  —  often  seemed  going  to  sleep 
in  the  night  in  their  rain-filled  holes  far  beyond 
the  breastworks,  each  with  its  litde  mound  of 
earth  thrown  up  toward  the  beleaguered  town. 
Their  night- firing  would  slacken  almost  to 
cessation  for  many  minutes  together.  But 
after  the  b-o-o-oom  of  a  great  gun  it  became 
brisker  usually ;  often  so  much  so  as  to  suggest 
that  some  of  Lee's  ragged  brigades,  their  march 
silenced  by  the  rain,  had  pierced  our  fore-front 
again,  and  were  "  gobbling  up  "  our  boys  on 
picket,  and  flinging  up  new  rifle-pits  on  the 
acres  reclaimed  for  a  night  and  a  day  for  the 
tottering  Confederacy. 

Sometimes  the  crack-a-rac-a-rack  would  die 
down  to  a  slow  fire  of  dropping  shots,  and  the 
forts  seemed  sleeping ;  and  patter,  patter,  patter 
on  the  veteran  canvas  we  heard  the  rain,  rain, 
rain,  not  unlike  the  roll  of  steady  musketry  very 
far  away. 


A   TURKEY  APIECE. 


201 


I  think  I  sit  again  beside  Charley  Wilson,  my 
sick  "  buddy,"  and  hear  his  uneven  breathing 
through  all  the  stamping  of  the  rows  of  wet 
horses  on  their  corduroy  floor  roofed  with  leaky 
pine  brush. 

That  squ-ushf  squ-tish  is  the  sound  of  the 
stable-guard's  boots  as  he  paces  slowly  through 
the  mud,  to  and  fro,  with  the  rain  rattling  on 
his  glazed  poncho  and  streaming  corded  hat. 
Sometimes  he  stops  to  listen  to  a  frantic 
brawling  of  the  wagon-train  mules,  sometimes 
to  the  reviving  picket-firing.  It  crackles  up  to 
animation  for  causes  that  we  can  but  guess; 
then  dies  down,  never  to  silence,  but  warns, 
warns,  as  the  distant  glow  of  the  sky  above  a 
volcano  warns  of  the  huge  waiting  forces  that 
give  it  forth. 

I  think  I  hear  Barney  Donahoe  pulling  our 
latch-string  that  November  night  when  we  first 
heard  of  the  great  Thanksgiving  dinner  that 
was  being  collected  in  New  York  for  the 
army. 


-,■■* 


11 
i 


i 


m 


202 


A   TURKEY  APIECE. 


"  Byes,  did  yez  hear  phwat  Sergeant  Cunning- 
ham was  tellin'  av  the  Thanksgivin'  turkeys 
that 's  comin'  ?  " 

"Come  in  out  of  the  rain,  Barney,"  says 
Charley,  feebly. 

"  Faith,  I  wish  I  dar',  but  it 's  meself  is  on 
shtable-guard.  Bedad,  it 's  a  rale  fire  ye  *ve 
got.  Divil  a  better  has  ould  Jimmy  himself 
(our  colonel).  Ye  've  heard  tell  of  the  turkeys, 
then,  and  the  pois?" 

"Yes.  Bully  for  the  folks  at  home!"  says 
Charley.  "  The  notion  of  turkey  next  Thursday 
has  done  me  good  already.  I  was  thinking  I  'd 
go  to  hospital  to-morrow,  but  now  I  guess  I 
won't." 

"Hoshpital!  Kape  clear  av  the  hoshpital, 
Char-les,  dear.  Sure,  they  'd  cut  a  man's  leg 
off  behind  the  ears  av  him  for  to  cure  him  av 
indigestion." 

"  Is  it  going  to  rain  all  night,  Barney?  " 

"  It  is,  bad  'cess  to  it ;  and  to-morrow  and 
the  day  afther,  I  'm   thinkin'.      The  blackness 


A    TURKEY  APIECE. 


203 


av  night  is  outside  ;  be  jabers  !  you  could  cut  it 
like  turf  with  a  shpade  !  If  it  was  n't  for  the 
ould  fort  flamin'  out  wanst  in  a  whoile,  I  'd  be 
thinkin'  I  'd  never  an  oi  in  mv  head,  barrin'  the 
fires  in  the  tints  far  an'  near  gives  a  bit  of 
dimness  to  the  dark.     Phwat  time  is  it?" 

"Quarter  to  twelve,  Barney." 

"  Troth,  then,  the  relief  will  be  soon  coming. 
I  must  be  thramping  the  mud  av  Virginia  to 
save  the  Union.  Good-night,  byes.  I  come  to 
give  yez  the  good  word.  Kape  your  heart  light 
an*  aisy,  Char-les,  dear.  D'  ye  moind  the 
turkeys  and  the  pois  ?  Faith,  it 's  meself  that 
has  the  taste  for  thim  dainties  !  " 

"  I  don't  believe  I  '11  be  able  to  eat  a  mite  of 
the  Thanksgiving,"  says  Charley,  as  we  hear 
Barney  squ-ush  away ;  "  but  just  to  see  the 
brown  on  a  real  old  brown  home  turkey  will 
do  me  a  heap  of  good." 

"  You  '11  be  all  right  by  Thursday,  Charley,  I 
guess ;   won't  you  ?     It 's  only  Sunday  night 


now. 


M 


-A 


204 


•       A    TURKEY  APIECE. 


Of  course  I  cannot  remember  the  very  words 
of  that  talk  in  the  night,  so  many  years  ago. 
But  the  coming  of  Barney  I  recollect  well,  and 
the  general  drift  of  what  was  said. 

Charley  turned  on  his  bed  of  hay-covered 
poles,  and  I  put  my  hand  under  his  gray  blanket 
to  feel  if  his  legs  were  well  covered  by  the  long 
overcoat  he  lay  in.  Then  I  tucked  the  blanket 
well  in  about  his  feet  and  shoulders,  pulled  his 
poncho  again  to  its  full  length  over  him,  and 
sat  on  a  cracker- box  looking  at  our  fire  for  a 
long  time,  while  the  rain  spattered  through  the 
canvas  in  spray. 

My  "  buddy  "  Charley,  the  most  popular  boy 
of  Company  I,  was  of  my  own  age,  —  seventeen, 
—  though  the  rolls  gave  us  a  year  more  each,  by 
way  of  compliance  with  the  law  of  enlistment. 
From  a  Pennsylvania  farm  in  the  hills  he  came 
forth  to  the  field  early  in  that  black  fall  of  '64, 
strong,  tall,  and  merry,  fit  to  ride  for  the  nation's 
life,  —  a  mighty  wielder  of  an  axe,  "  bold,  cau- 
tious, true,  and  my  loving  comrade." 


A    TURKEY  APIECE. 


205 


We  were  "  the  kids "  to  Company  I.  To 
*'■  buddy  "  with  Charley  I  gave  up  my  share  of 
the  hut  I  had  helped  to  build  as  old  Bader's 
"  pard."  Then  the  "  kids  "  set  aboui;  the  con- 
struction of  a  new  residence,  which  stood 
farther  from  the  parade  ground  than  any  hut 
in  the  row  except  the  big  cabin  of  "old 
Brownie,"  the  "  greasy  cook,"  who  called  us 
to  "bean — oh!"  with  so  resonant  a  shout, 
and  majestically  served  out  our  rations  of  pork, 
"  salt  horse,"  coffee  long-boiled  and  sickeningly 
sweet,  hardtack,  and  the  daily  loaf  of  a  singularly 
despondent-looking  bread. 

My  "  buddy  "  and  I  slept  on  opposite  sides 
of  our  wirter  residence.  The  bedsteads  were 
made  of  poles  laid  lengthwise  and  lifted  about 
two  feet  from  the  ground.  These  were  covered 
thinly  with  hay  from  the  bales  that  were  regu- 
larly delivered  for  horse-fodder.  There  was  a 
space  of  about  two  feet  between  our  bedsteads, 
and  under  them  we  kept  our  saddles  and  saddle- 
cloths. 


..  \ 


206 


A    TURKEY  APIECE. 


» I 


Our  floor  was  of  earth,  with  a  few  flour- 
barrel  staves  and  cracker-box  sides  laid  down 
for  rugs.  We  had  each  an  easy-chair  in  the 
form  of  a  cracker-box,  besides  a  stout  soap- 
box for  guests.  Our  carbines  and  sabres  hung 
crossed  on  pegs  over  the  mantel-piece,  above 
our  Bibles  and  the  precious  daguerreotypes  of 
the  dear  folks  at  home.  When  we  happened  to 
have  enough  wood  for  a  bright  fire,  we  felt 
much  snugger  than  you  might  suppose. 

Before  ever  that  dark  November  began, 
Charley  had  been  suffering  from  one  of  those 
wasting  diseases  that  so  often  clung  to  and 
carried  off  the  strongest  men  of  both  armies. 
Sharing  the  soldiers'  inveterate  prejudice  against 
hospitals  attended  by  young  doctors,  who,  the 
men  believed,  were  addicted  to  much  surgery  for 
the  sake  of  practice,  my  poor  "  buddy  "  strove 
to  do  his  regular  duties.  He  paraded  with  the 
sick  before  the  regimental  doctor  as  seldom  as 
possible.  He  was  favored  by  the  sergeants  and 
helped    in    every   way   by   the    men,   and    so 


A    TURKEY  APIECE. 


207 


continued  to  stay  with  the  company  at  that 
wet  season  when  drill  and  parades  were 
impracticable. 

The  idea  of  a  Thanksgiving  dinner  for  half  a 
million  men  by  sea  and  land  fascinated  Charley's 
imagination,  and  cheered  him  mightily.  But 
I  could  not  see  that  his  strength  increased,  as 
he  often  alleged.     '    . 

"  Ned,  you  bet  I  '11  be  on  hand  when  them 
turkeys  are  served  out,"  he  would  say.  "  You 
won't  need  to  carry  my  Thanksgiving  dinner  up 
from  Brownie's.  Say,  ain't  it  bully  for  the  folks 
at  home  to  be  giving  us  a  Thanksgiving  like 
this  ?  Turkeys,  sausages,  mince-pies  !  They 
say  there  's  going  to  be  apples  and  celery  for 
all  hands ! " 

*'  S'pose  you  '11  be  able  to  eat,  Charley?  " 

"  Able  !  Of  course  I  '11  be  able  !  I  '11  be  just 
as  spry  as  you  be  on  Thanksgiving.  See  if  I 
don't  carry  my  own  turkey  all  right.  Yes,  by 
gum,  if  it  weighs  twenty  pounds  !  " 

"  There  won't  be  a  turkey  apiece." 


%: 


I 

I 


'.  \ 


208 


A    TURKEY  APIECE. 


?  f 


1 1 


"  No,  eh  ?  Well,  that 's  what  I  figure  on. 
Half  a  turkey,  anyhow.  Got  to  be ;  besides 
chickens,  hams,  sausages,  and  all  that  kind  of 
fixin's.  You  heard  what  Bill  Sylvester's  girl 
wrote  from  Philamadink-a-daisy-oh ?  No,  eh? 
Well,  he  come  in  a-purpose  to  read  me  the 
letter.  Says  there  's  going  to  be  three  or  four 
hundred  thousand  turkeys,  besides  them  fixin's  1 
Sherman's  boys  can't  get  any ;  they  're  marched 
too  far  away,  out  of  reach.  The  Shenandoah  boys 
'11  get  some,  and  Butler's  crowd,  and  us  chaps, 
and  the  blockading  squadrons.  Bill's  girl  says 
so.  We  '11  get  the  whole  lot  between  us.  Four 
hundred  thousand  turkeys !  Of  course  there  '11 
be  a  turkey  apiece ;  there  *s  got  to  be,  if  there  's 
any  sense  in  arithmetic.  Oh,  I  '11  be  choosin' 
between  breast-meat  and  hind-legs  on  Thanks- 
giving, —  you  bet  your  sweet  life  on  that !  " 

This  expectation  that  there  would  be  a  turkey 
a-piece  was  not  shared  by  Company  I ;  but  no 
one  denied  it  in  Charley's  hearing.  The  boy 
held  it  as  sick  people  often  do  fantastic  notions. 


A    TURKEY  APIECE, 


209 


and  all  fell  into  the  humor  of  strengthening  the 
reasoning  on  which  he  went. 

It  was  clear  that  no  appetite  for  turkey 
moved  my  poor  *'  buddy,"  but  that  his  brain 
was  busy  with  the  "  whole-turkey-a-piece  "  idea 
as  one  significant  of  the  immense  liberality  of 
the  folks  at  home,  and  their  absorbing  interest 
in  the  army. 

"Where's  there  any  nation  iuat  ever  was 
that  would  get  to  work  and  fix  up  four  hundred 
thousand  turkeys  for  the  boys?"  he  often 
remarked,  with  ecstatic  patriotism. 

I  have  often  wondered  why  "  Bill  Sylvester's 
girl "  gave  that  flourishing  account  of  the  prep- 
arations for  our  Thanksgiving  dinner.  It  was 
only  on  searching  the  newspaper  files  recendy 
that  I  surmised  her  sources  of  information. 
Newspapers  seldom  reached  our  regiment  until 
they  were  several  weeks  old,  and  then  they  were 
not  much  read,  at  least  by  me.  Now  I  know 
how  enthusiastic  the  papers  of  November,  '64, 
were  on  the  great  feast  for  the  army. 

14 


2IO 


A    TURKEY  APIECE. 


For  instance,  on  the  morning  of  that  Thanks- 
giving day,  the  24th  of  November,  the  New 
York  Tribune  said  editorially:  — 

"  Forty  thousand  turkeys,  eighty  thousand 
turkeys,  one  hundred  and  sixty  thousand  turkeys, 
nobody  knows  how  many  turkeys  have  been  sent 
to  our  soldiers.  Such  masses  of  breast-meat  and 
such  mountains  of  stuffing ;  drumsticks  enough  to 
fit  out  three  or  four  Grand  Armies,  a  perfect  prom- 
ontory of  pope's  noses,  a  mighty  aggregate  of 
wings.  The  gifts  of  their  lordships  to  the  supper 
which  Grangousier  spread  to  welcome  Gargantua 
were  nothing  to  those  which  our  good  people  at 
home  send  to  their  friends  in  the  field;  and  no 
doubt  every  soldier,  if  his  dinner  docs  not  set  him 
thinking  too  intently  of  that  home,  will  prove  him- 
self a  valiant  trencherman." 

Across  the  vast  encampment  before  Peters- 
burg a  biting  wind  blew  that  Thanksgiving  day. 
It  came  through  every  cranny  of  our  hut ;  it 
bellied  the  canvas  on  one  side  and  tightened  it 
on  the  other;  it  pressed  flat  down  the  smoke 
from  a  hundred  thousand  mud  chimneys,  and 
swept  away  so  quickly  the  little  coals  which  fell 

\ 


on  the  cai  vas  that  they  had  not  time  to  burn 
through. 

When  I  went  out  towards  noon,  for  perhaps 
the  twentieth  time  that  day,  to  learn  whether 
our  commissary  wagons  had  returned  from 
City  Point  with  the  turkeys,  the  muddy  parade 
ground  was  dotted  with  groups  of  shivering 
men,  all  looking  anxiously  for  the  feast's  arrival. 
Officers  frequently  came  out,  to  exchange  a 
few  cheery  words  with  their  men,  from  the  tall, 
close  hedge  of  withering  pines  stuck  on  end 
that  enclosed  the  officers'  quarters  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  parade  ground. 

No  turkeys  at  twelve  o'clock  !  None  at  one  I 
Two,  three,  four,  five  o'clock  passed  by,  and 
still  nothing  had  been  heard  of  our  absent 
wagons.  Charley  was  too  weak  to  get  out 
that  day,  but  he  cheerfully  scouted  the  idea 
that  a  turkey  for  each  man  would  not  arrive 
sooner  or  later. 

The  rest  of  us  dined  and  supped  on  "  com- 
missary."     It  was  not  good  commissary  either, 


\  I 


212 


A    TURKEY  APIECE. 


for  Brownie,  the  "  greasy  cook,"  had  gone  on 
leave  to  visit  a  "doughboy  "  cousin  of  the  Sixth 
Corps.  N       i 

"  You  '11  have  turkey  for  dinner  boys,"  he 
had  said,  ovi  serving  out  breakfast.  "  If  you  're 
wanting  coffee,  Tom  can  make  it."  Thus  we 
had  to  dine  and  sup  on  the  amateur  productions 
of  the  cook's  mate. 

A  multitude  of  woful  rumors  concerning 
the  absent  turkeys  flew  round  that  evening.  The 
"Johnnies,"  we  heard,  had  raided  round  the 
army,  and  captured  the  fowls  !  Butler's  col- 
ored troops  had  got  all  the  turkeys,  and  had 
been  feeding  on  fowl  for  two  days !  The 
officers  had  "  gobbled  "  the  whole  consignment 
for  their  own  use  !  The  whole  story  of  the 
Thanksgiving  dinner  was  a  newspaper  hoax ! 
Nothing  was  too  incredible  for  men  so  bitterly 
disappointed. 

Brownie  returned  before  "  lights  out "  sounded, 
and  reported  facetiously  that  the  "  doughboys  " 
he  had  visited  were  feeding  full  of  turkey  and 


A    TURKEY  APIECE. 


213 


all  manner  of  fixings.  There  were  so  many 
wagons  waiting  at  City  Point  that  the  roads 
round  there  were  blocked  for  miles.  We  could 
not  fail  to  get  our  turkeys  to-morrow.  With 
this  expectation  we  went,  pretty  happy,  to 
bed. 

"  There  '11  be  a  turkey  apiece,  you  'H  see, 
Ned,"  said  Charley,  in  a  confident,  weak  voice,  as 
I  turned  in.  "  We  '11  all  have  a  bully  Thanks- 
giving to-morrow." 

The  morrow  broke  as  bleak  as  the  preced- 
ing day,  and  without  a  sign  of  turkey  for  our 
brigade.  But  about  twelve  o'clock  a  great 
shouting  came  from  the  parade  ground. 

"  The  turkeys  have  come !  "  cried  Charley, 
trying  to  rise.  "  Never  mind  picking  out  a 
big  one  for  me ;  any  one  will  do.  I  don't 
believe  I  can  eat  a  bite,  but  I  want  to  see  it. 
My  !  ain't  it  kind  of  the  folks  at  home  ! 

I  ran  out  and  found  his  surmise  as  to  the 
return  of  the  wagons  correct.  They  were 
filing  into  the   enclosure   around  the  quarter- 


'I    ! 


! 


I 


214 


A    TURKEY  APIECE. 


master's  tent.  Nothing  but  an  order  that  the 
men  should  keep  to  company  quarters  prevented 
the  whole  regiment  helping  to  unload  the 
delicacies  of  the  season. 

Soon  foraging  parties  went  from  each  com- 
pany to  the  quartermaster's  enclosure.  Company 
I  sent  six  men.  They  returned,  grinning,  in 
about  half  an  hour,  with  one  box  on  one  man's 
shoulders. 

It  was  carried  to  Sergeant  Cunningham's 
cabin,  the  nearest  to  the  parade  ground,  the 
most  distant  from  that  of  "  the  kids,"  in  which 
Charley  lay  waiting.  We  crowded  round  the 
hut  with  some  sinking  of  enthusiasm.  There 
was  no  cover  on  the  box  except  a  bit  of  cotton 
in  which  some  of  the  consignment  had  prob- 
ably been  wrapped.  Brownie  whisked  this 
off,  and  those  nearest  Cunningham's  door  saw 
disclosed  —  two  small  turkeys,  a  chicken,  four 
rather  disorganized  pies,  two  handsome  bologna 
sausages,  and  six  very  red  apples. 
^   We  were  nearly  seventy  men.     The  comical 

\ 


I 


A    TURKEY  APIECE. 


215 


side  of  the  case  struck  the  boys  instantly. 
Their  disappointment  was  so  extreme  as  to  be 
absurd.  There  might  be  two  ounces  of  feast 
to  each,  if  the  whole  were  equally  shared. 

All  hands  laughed ;  not  a  man  swore.  The 
idea  of  an  equal  distribution  seemed  to  have  no 
place  in  that  company.  One  proposed  that  all 
should  toss  up  for  the  lot.  Another  suggested 
drawing  lots;  a  third  that  we  should  set  the 
Thanksgiving  dinner  at  one  end  of  the  parade 
ground  and  run  a  race  for  it,  "  grab  who  can." 

At  this  Barney  Donahoe  spoke  up. 

"Begorra,  yez  can  race  for  wan  turkey  av 
yez  loike.  But  the  other  wan  is  goin*  to 
Char-les  Wilson  !  " 

There  was  not  a  dissenting  voice.  Charley 
was  altogether  the  most  popular  member  of 
Company  I,  and  every  man  knew  how  he  had 
clung  to  the  turkey  apiece  idea. 

"  Never  let  on  a  word,"  said  Sergeant  Cun- 
ningham. "  He  '11  think  there 's  a  turkey  for 
every  man !  " 


II 


2l6 


A    TURKEY  APIECE. 


The  biggest  bird,  the  least  demoralized  pie,  a 
bologna  sausage,  and  the  whole  six  apples  were 
placed  in  the  cloth  that  had  covered  the  box. 
I  was  told  to  carry  the  display  to  my  poor 
"buddy."  "  ^^ 

As  I  marched  down  the  row  of  tents  a 
tremendous  yelling  arose  from  the  crov/d  round 
Cunningham's  tent.  I  turned  to  look  behind. 
Some  man  with  a  riotous  impulse  had  seized 
the  box  and  flung  its  contents  in  the  air  over 
the  thickest  of  the  crowd.  Next  moment  the 
turkey  was  seized  by  half  a  dozen  hands.  As 
many  more  helped  to  tear  it  to  pieces.  Barney 
Donahoe  ran  past  me  with  a  leg,  and  two 
laughing  men  after  him.  Those  who  secured 
larger  portions  took  a  bite  as  quickly  as 
possible,  and  yielded  the  rest  to  clutching 
hands.  The  bologna  sausage  was  shared  in 
like  fashion,  but  I  never  heard  of  any  one  who 
got  a  taste  of  the  pies. 

"Here's  your  turkey,  Charley,"  said  I, 
entering  with  my  burden. 


\ 


.  / 


Mm 


Jarney 


A    TURKEY  APIECE. 


217 


1 


"  Where  's  yours,  Ned  ?  " 

"  I  've  got  my  turkey  all  right  enough  at 
Cunningham's  tent." 

"  Did  n't  I  tell  you  there  'd  be  a  turkey  a- 
piece?"  he  cried  gleefully,  as  I  unrolled  the 
lot.  "  And  sausages,  apples,  a  whole  pie  —  oh, 
sayt  ain't  they  bully  folks  up  home  !  " 

"  They  are,"  said  I.     "  I  believe  we  'd  have 
had  a  bigger  Thanksgiving  yet  if  it  was  n't  such 
'  a  trouble  getting  it  distributed." 

"  You  'd  better  believe  it !     They  'd  do  any- 
thing in  the  world  for  the  army,"  he  said,  lying 
back. 
.     "  Can't  you  eat  a  bite,  buddy?  " 

"  No ;  I  'm  not  a  mite  hungry.  But  I  '11  look 
at  it.  It  won't  spoil  before  to-morrow.  Then 
you  can  share  it  all  out  among  the  boys. ' 

Looking  at  the  turkey,  the  sick  lad  fell 
asleep.  Barney  Donahoe  softly  opened  our 
door,  stooped  his  head  under  the  lintel,  and 
gazed  a  few  moments  at  the  quiet  face  turned 
to   the  Thanksgiving  turkey.     Man   after  man 


t   \ 


I.I.; 


If 


! 


I 


2l8 


A    TURKEY  APIECE. 


HI  i.ig 
llil'llll 


followed  to  gaze  on  the  company's  favorite,  and 
on  the  fowl  which,  they  knew,  tangibly  symbol- 
ized to  him  the  immense  love  of  the  nation  for 
the  flower  of  its  manhood  in  the  field.  Indeed, 
the  people  had  forwarded  an  enormous  Thanks- 
giving feast ;  but  it  was  impossible  to  distribute 
it  evenly,  and  we  were  one  of  the  regiments 
that  came  short. 

Grotesque,  that  scene  was?  Group  after 
group  of  hungry,  dirty  soldiers,  gazing  solemnly, 
lovingly,  at  a  lone  brown  turkey  and  a  pal- 
lid sleeping  boy  !  Yes,  very  grotesque.  But 
Charley  had  his  Thanksgiving  dinner,  and  the 
men  of  Company  I,  perhaps,  enjoyed  a  pro- 
founder  satisfaction  than  if  they  had  feasted 
more  materially. 

I  never  saw  Charley  after  that  Thanksgiving 
day.  Before  the  afternoon  was  half  gone  the 
doctor  sent  an  ambulance  for  him,  and  insisted 
that  he  should  go  to  City  Point.  By  Christmas 
his  wasted  body  had  lain  for  three  weeks  in  the 
red  Virginia  soil. 


GRANDPAPA'S  WOLF   STORY. 


"  npELL  us  a  story,  grandpapa." 

-*-  "One  that  will  last  all  the  evening, 
chickens?" 

"  Yes,  grandpapa,  darling,"  said  Jenny,  while 
Jimmy  clapped  hands. 

"What  about?"  said  the  old  lumber  king. 
."About  when  you  were  a  boy." 

"  When  I  was  a  boy,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
taking  Jenny  on  his  knee  and  putting  his  arm 
round  Jimmy,  "  the  boys  and  girls  were  as  fond 
of  stories  as  they  are  now.  Once  when  I  was  a 
boy  I  said  to  my  grandfather,  *  Tell  me  a  story, 
grandpa,'  and  he  replied,  '  When  I  was  a  boy  the 
boys  were  as  fond  of  stories  as  they  are  now ;  for 
once  when  I  was  a  boy  I  said  to  my  grandfather, 
"  Tell  me  a  story,  grandpa,  —  "  '  " 


w.   ' 


>.  ■  t 


:!:     I 


220 


GRANDPAPA'S   WOLF  STORY. 


"  Why,  it  seems  to  go  on  just  the  same  story, 
grandpapa,"  said  Jenny. 

"  That 's  not  the  end  of  it,  Jenny,  dear,"  said 
grandpapa. 

"  No-o?  "  said  Jenny,  dubiously.         " 

Jimmy  said  nothing.  He  lived  with  his  grand- 
father, and  knew  his  ways.  Jenny  came  on  visits 
only,  and  was  not  well  enough  acquainted  with 
the  old  gentleman  to  know  that  he  would  soon 
tire  of  the  old  joke,  and  reward  patient  children 
by  a  good  story. 

"  Shall  I  go  on  with  the  story,  Jenny?  "  said 
grandpapa. 

"  Oh,  yes,  grandpapa  !  " 

"  Well,  then,  when  that  grandpa  was  a  boy,  he 
said  to  his  grandfather,  *  Tell  me  a  story,  grand- 
papa,* and  his  grandfather  replied  —  " 

Jenny  soon  listened  with  a  demure  smile  of 
attention. 

"  Do  you  like  this  story,  dear  ?  "  said  grand- 
papa, after  pursuing  the  repetition  for  some 
minutes  longer. 


GRANDPAPA  'S   IVOLF  STORY. 


221 


"  I  shall,  grandpapa,  darling.  It  must  be  very 
good  when  you  come  to  the  grandfather  that  told 
it.  I  like  to  think  of  all  my  grandfathers,  and 
great,  great,  great,  greater,  greatest,  great,  great- 
grandpapas  all  telling  the  same  story." 

"  Yes,  it 's  a  genuine  family  story,  Jenny,  and 
you  're  a  little  witch."  The  old  gentleman  kissed 
her.  "  Well,  where  was  I  ?  Oh,  now  I  remem- 
ber !  And  thai  grandpapa  said  to  his  grand- 
flither,  *  Tell  me  a  story,  grandpapa,'  and  his 
grandpapa  replied,  *  When  I  was  a  young  fel- 
low—'" 

"  Now  it 's  beginning  !  "  cried  Jimmy,  clap- 
ping his  hands,  and  shifting  to  an  easier  attitude 
by  the  old  man's  easy-chair. 

Grandpapa  looked  comically  at  Jimmy,  and 
said,  "  His  grandfather  replied,  '  When  I  was  a 
young  fellow  —  '  " 

The  faces  of  the  children  became  woful 
again. 

"  '  One  rainy  day  I  took  my  revolver —  '  " 

"Revolver!     Grandpapa  !"  cried  Jenny. 


I'll!'   m 


Mil  I 


222 


GRANDPAPA  'S  tVOLF  STORY. 


^'1 


"Yes,  dear." 

"An  American  revolver,  grandpapa?" 

"  Certainly,  dear."  -        ^ 

"  And  did  he  tell  the  story  in  English  ?  " 

"Yes,  pet." 

"  But,  grandpapa,  darling,  that  grandpapa 
was  seventy-three  grandpapas  back  1 " 

"  About  that,  my  dear." 

"  I  kept  count,  grandpapa." 

"And  don't  you  like  good  old-fashioned 
stories,  Jenny?"  -     - 

"  Oh,  yes,  grandpapa,  but  revolvers  —  and 
Americans  — ^Xid  the  English  language  !  Why, 
it  was  more  than  twent;-  two  hundred  years  ago, 
grandpapa,  darling !  " 

"  Ha !  ha !  You  never  thought  of  that, 
Jimmy !  Oh,  you  've  been  at  school.  Miss 
Bright-eyes  !  Kiss  me,  you  little  rogue.  Now 
listen ! 

"  When  /  was  a  young  fellow  —  " 

"  You  yourself,  grandpapa  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Jenny." 


GRANDPAPA'S   lyOLF  STORV. 


223 


"  I  'm  so  glad  it  was  you  yourself !  I  like  my 
own  grandpapa's  stories  best  of  all." 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear.  After  that  I  must  be 
very  entertaining.  Yes,  I  *ll  tell  my  best  story 
of  all  —  and  Jimmy  has  never  heard  it.  Well, 
•  when  I  was  a  young  fellow  of  seventeen  I  was 
clerk  in  a  lumber  shanty  on  the  Sheboiobonzhe- 
gunpashageshickawigamog  River." 

"  How  did  you  ever  learn  that  name,  grand- 
•papa,  darling?  "  cried  Jenny, 

"  Oh,  I  could  learn  things  in  those  days. 
Remembering  it  is  the  difficulty,  dear  —  see  if 
it  is  n't.  I'll  give  you  a  nice  new  ten-dollar  bill 
if  you  tell  me  that  name  to-morrow." 

Jenny  bent  her  brows  and  tried  so  hard  to 
^  recall  the  syllables  that  she  almost  lost  part  of 
the  story.     Grandpapa  went  steadily  on  :  — 

"  One  day  in  February,  when  it  was  too  rainy 
for  the  men  to  work,  and  just  rainy  enough  to 
go  deer-shooting  if  you  had  n't  had  fresh  meat 
for  five  months,  I  took  to  the  woods  with  my 
gun,  revolver,  hatchet,  and  dinner.     All  the  fore 


tl 


224 


GRANDPAPA'S   n'OLF  STORV. 


■X: 


W^ 


part  of  the  day  I  failed  to  get  a  shot,  though  I 
saw  many  deer  on  the  hemlock  ridges  of  Sheboi 
—  that  *s  the  way  it  begins,  Jenny,  and  Sheboi 
we  called  it. 

"  But  late  in  the  afternoon  I  killed  a  buck. 
I  cut  off  a  haunch,  lifted  the  carcass  into  the 
low  boughs  of  a  spruce,  and  started  for  camp, 
six  miles  away,  across  snowy  hills  and  frozen 
lakes.  The  snow-shoeing  was  heavy,  and  I 
feared  I  should  not  get  in  before  dark.  The 
Sheboi  country  was  infested  with  wolves  —  "    ■ 

"  Bully  !  It 's  a  wolf  story  I  "  said  Jimmy. 
Jenny  shuddered  with  delight. 

"  As  I  went  along  you  may  be  sure  I  never 
thought  my  grandchildren  would  be  pleased  to 
have  me  in  danger  of  being  eaten  up  by  wolves." 

Jenny  looked  shocked  at  the  imputation. 
Grandpapa  watched  her  with  twinkling  eyes. 
When  she  saw  he  was  joking,  she  cried  :  "  But 
you  were  n't  eaten,  grandpapa.  You  were  too 
brave." 

*•  Ah,  I  had  n't  thought  of  that.    Perhaps  I  'd 


V 


GRANDPAPA  'S  WOLF  STORY. 


225 


better  not  tell  the  story.     You  Ml  have  a  worse 
opinion  of  my  courage,  my  dear." 

"  Of  course  you  had  to  run  from  wolves^ 
grandpapa  !"  said  the  little  girl. 

"  I  '11  bet  grandpapa  did  n't  run  then,  miss," 
said  Jimmy.  "  I  '11  bet  he  shot  them  with  his 
gun." 

"He  couldn't  —  could  you,  grandpapa? 
There  were  too  many.  Of  course  grandpapa 
had  to  run.  That  was  n't  being  cowardly.  It 
was  just  —  just  —  running.^^ 

"  No,  Jenny,  I  did  n't  run  a  yard." 

"  Did  n'c  I  tell  you  ?  "  cried  Jimmy.  "  Grand- 
papa shot  them  with  his  gun." 

"  You  're  mistaken,  Jimmy." 
\     "  Then  you  must  —    No,  for  you  're  here  — 
you  were  n't  eaten  up  ?  "  said  wondering  Jenny. 

"  No,  dear,  I  was  n't  eaten  up." 

"  Oh,  I  know  !  The  wolves  did  n't  come  !  " 
cried  Jimmy,  who  remembered  one  of  his  grand- 
papa's stories  as  having  ended  in  that  unhappy 
way. 


IS 


r 

i  ! 

i| ' 

■'.■ 

:|i: 

\ 

':'■     f 

! 

;|  f 


I 


t] 


I  i 


226 


GRANDPAPA'S   WOLF  STORY. 


"  Oh,  but  they  did,  Jimmy  !  " 

"Why,  grandpapa,  what  did  you  do?  " 

"  I  climbed  into  a  hollow  tree." 

"  Of  course  /  "  said  both  children. 

"  Now  I  *m  going  to  tell  you  a  true  wolf  story, 
and  that  *s  what  few  grandpapas  can  do  out  of 
their  own  experience. 

"  I  was  resting  on  the  shore  of  a  lake,  with 
my  snow-shoes  off  to  ease  my  sore  toes,  when  I 
saw  a  pack  of  wolves  trotting  lazily  toward  me 
on  the  snow  that  covered  the  ice.  I  was  sure 
they  had  not  seen  me.  Righi  at  my  elbow  was 
a  big  hollow  pine.  It  had  an  opening  down  to 
the  ground,  a  good  deal  like  the  door  of  a 
sentry-box. 

"  There  was  a  smaller  opening  about  thirty 
feet  higher  up.  I  had  looked  up  and  seen  this 
before  I  saw  the  wolves.  Then  I  rose,  stood  for 
a  moment  in  the  hollow,  and  climbed  up  by  my 
feet,  knees,  hands,  and  elbows  till  I  thought  my 
feet  were  well  above  the  top  of  the  opening. 
Dead  wood  and  dust  fell  as  I  ascended,  but  I 
hoped  the  wolves  had  not  heard  me." 


GRANDPAPA'S   WOLF  STORY. 


227 


"  Did  they,  grandpapa?  " 

"Perhaps  not  at  first,  Jenny.  But  maybe 
they  got  a  scent  of  the  deer-meat  I  was  carry- 
ing. At  any  rate,  they  were  soon  snapping  and 
snarling  over  it  and  my  snow-shoes.  Gobble- 
de-gobble^  yip,  yap,  snap,  growl,  snarl,  gobble  — 
the  meat  was  all  gone  in  a  moment,  like  little 
Red  Riding  Hood." 

"  Why,  grandpapa  !  The  wolf  did  n't  eat 
little  Red  Riding  Hood.  The  boy  came  in 
time  —  don't  you  remember?" 

"  Perhaps  you  never  read  my  Red  Riding 
Hood,  Jenny,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  laugh- 
ing. "  At  any  rate,  the  wolves  lunched  at  my 
expense ;  yet  I  hoped  they  would  n't  be  polite 
enough  to  look  round  for  their  host.  But  they 
did  inquire  for  me  —  not  very  politely,  I 
must  say.  They  seemed  in  bad  humor  —  per- 
haps there  had  n't  been  enough  lunch  to  go 
round." 

"  The  greedy  things  !  A  whole  haunch  of 
venison  !  "  cried  Jenny. 


I  n 


i 


-      ! 


i'f; 


hi 

I 

1  ! 


I)   ■ 


|i     ' 


i 


(I 


228 


GRANDPAPA  'S   IVOLF  STORY. 


(< 


Ah,  but  I  had  provided  no  currant  jelly  with 
it,  and  of  course  they  were  vexed.  If  you  ever 
give  a  diniier-party  to  wolves,  don't  forget  the 
currant  jelly,  Jenny.  How  they  yelled  for  it  — 
Cur-r-r-rant-jell-yell-yell-elly-yell  f  That's  the 
way  they  went. 

"  And  they  also  said,  Yow  — yow  —  there  'j 
—  yow  —  no  —  desser-r-rt  —  either  —  yow  — 
yow!  Perhaps  they  wanted  me  to  explain. 
At  any  rate,  they  put  their  heads  into  the  open- 
ing—  how  many  at  once  I  don't  know,  for  I 
could  not  see  down ;  and  then  they  screamed 
for  me.  It  was  an  uncomfortably  close  scream, 
chickens.  My  feet  must  have  been  nearer 
them  than  I  thought,  for  one  fellow's  nose 
touched  my  moccasin  as  he  jumped." 

"  O  grandpapa  I  If  he  had  caught  your 
foot ! " 

"  But  he  did  n't,  Jenny,  dear.  He  caught 
something  worse.  When  he  tumbled  back  he 
must  have  fallen  on  the  other  fellows,  for  there 
was  a  great  snapping  and  snarling  and  yelping 
all  at  once. 


GRANDPAPA'S   IFOLF  STORV. 


229 


"  Meantime  I  tried  to  go  up  out  of  reach. 
It  was  easy  enough ;  but  with  every  fresh  hold 
I  took  with  shoulders,  elbows,  hands,  and  feet, 
the  dead  old  wood  crumbled  and  broke  away, 
so  that  thick  dust  filled  the  hollow  tree. 

**  I  was  afraid  I  should  be  suffocated.  But 
up  I  worked  till  at  last  I  got  to  the  upper  hole 
and  stuck  out  my  head  for  fresh  air.  There  I 
was,  pretty  comfortable  for  a  little  while,  and 
I  easily  supported  my  weight  by  bending  my 
back,  thrusting  with  my  feet,  and  holding  on 
the  edge  of  the  hole  by  my  hands. 

"  After  getting  breath  I  gave  my  attention  to 
the  wolves.  They  did  not  catch  sight  of  me  for 
a  few  moments.  Some  stood  looking  much 
interested  at  the  lower  opening,  as  terriers  do 
at  the  hole  where  a  rat  has  disappeared. 

"  Dust  still  came  from  the  hole  to  the  open 
air.  Some  wolves  sneezed;  others  sat  and 
squealed  with  annoyance,  as  Bruno  does  when 
you  close  the  door  on  him  at  dinner-time. 
They  were  disgusted  at  my  concealment.     Of 


'if    \i 


i# 


1:^1 


230 


GRANDPAPA  'S   IVOLF  STORV. 


Wi  m 


course  you  have  a  pretty  good  idea  of  what 
they  said,  Jenny." 

"  No,  grandpapa.  The  horrid,  cruel  things  1 
What  did  they  say?"  ' 

"  Well,  of  course  wolf  talk  is  rude,  even  sav- 
age, and  dreadfully  profane.  As  near  as  I  could 
make  out,  one  fellow  screamed,  *  Shame,  boy, 
taking  an  unfair  advantage  of  poor  starving 
wolves  ! '  It  seemed  as  if  another  fellow  yelled, 
*  You  young  coward  !  *  A  third  cried,  *  Oh,  yes, 
you  think  you  're  safe,  do  you  ?  *  A  fourth, 
'  Yoiv — yow  —  but  we  can  wait  till  you  come 
down!'" 

Grandpapa  mimicked  the  wolfish  voices  and 
looks  so  effectively  that  Jenny  was  rather 
alarmed. 

"  One  old  fellow  seemed  to  suggest  that  they 
should  go  away  and  look  for  more  venison  for 
supper,  while  he  kept  watch  on  me.  At  that 
there  was  a  general  howl  of  derision.  They 
seemed  to  me  to  be  telling  the  old  fellow  that 
they  were  just  as  fond  of  boy  as  he,  and  that 
they  understood  his  little  game. 


GRANDPAPA'  S   WOLF  STORY. 


231 


"  The  old  chap  evidently  tried  to  explain, 
but  they  grinned  with  all  their  teeth  as  he 
turned  from  one  to  another.  You  must  not 
suppose,  chickens,  that  wolves  have  no  sense  of 
humor.     Yet,  poor  things  —  " 

"  Poor  things  !     Why,  grandpapa  !  " 

"  Yes,  Jenny ;  so  lean  and  hungry,  you  know. 
Then  one  of  them  suddenly  caught  sight  of  my 
head,  and  did  n't  he  yell !  *  There  he  is  — 
( look  up  the  tree  ! '  cried  Mr.  Wolf. 

"  For  a  few  moments  they  were  silent.  Then 
they  sprang  all  at  once,  absurdly  anxious  to  get 
nearer  to  me,  twenty-five  feet  or  so  above  their 
reach.  On  falling,  they  tumbled  into  several 
heaps  of  mouths  and  legs  and  tails.  After 
\  scuffling  and  separating,  they  gazed  up  at  me 
with  silent  longing.  I  should  have  been  very 
popular  for  a  few  minutes  had  I  gone  down." 

Jenny  shuddered,  and  then  nestled  closer  to 
her  grandfather. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  Jenny.  They  did  n't  eat 
me  —  not   that  time.     After  a  few  moments' 


I 

■  '  I 
I 


t  \ 


I 


232 


GRANDPAPA  'S   WOLF  STORY. 


I' 


staring  I  became  very  impolite.  *  Boo-ooh  ! ' 
said  I.  *  Yah-ha-ha  ! '  said  I.  •  You  be  shot ! ' 
I  cried.  They  resented  it.  Even  wolves  love 
to  be  gently  addressed. 

"  They  began  yelling,  snarling,  and  howling  at 
me  worse  than  politicians  at  a  sarcastic  member 
of  the  opposite  party.  I  imitated  them.  Never- 
theless, I  was  beginning  to  be  frightened.  The 
weather  was  turning  cold,  night  was  coming  on, 
and  I  didn't  like  the  prospect  of  staying  till 
morning. 

"  All  of  a  sudden  I  began  laughing.  I  had 
till  then  forgotten  my  pistol  and  pocketful  of  car- 
tridges.   There  were  seventeen  nice  wolves —  " 

**  Nice  !     Why,  grandpa  !  " 

"  They  seemed  very  nice  wolves  when  I  recol- 
lected the  county  bounty  of  six  dollars  for  a 
wolf's  head.  Also,  their  skins  would  fetch  two 
dollars  apiece.  *  Why,'  said  I,  *  my  dear  wolves, 
you  're  worth  one  hundred  and  thirty-six  dollars.' 

"  *  Don't  you  wish  you  may  get  it  1 '  said  they, 
sneering. 


\ 


GRANDPAPA  'S  U^OLF  STORY. 


233 


"  *  You  're  worth  one  hundred  and  thirty-six 
dollars,'  I  repeated,  *  and  yet  you  want  to 
sponge  on  a  poor  boy  for  a  free  supper  1 
Shame  r" 

"  Did  you  say  it  out  loud,  grandpapa?  " 

ti  Well  —  no,  Jenny.  It 's  a  thing  I  might 
have  said,  you  know ;  but  I  did  n't  exactly  think 
of  it  at  the  time.  I  was  feeling  for  my  pistol. 
Just  as  I  tugged  it  out  of  its  case  at  my  waist, 
my  knees,  arms,  and  all  lost  their  hold,  and 
down  I  fell." 

"  Grandpapa,  dear !  "  Jenny  nervously 
clutched  him. 

« I  did  n't  fall  far,  pet.  But  the  dust !  Talk 
*  of  sweeping  floors !  The  whole  inside  of  the 
\  tree  below  me,  borne  down  by  my  weight,  had 
fallen  in  chunks  and  dust.  There  I  was,  gasp- 
ing for  breath,  and  the  hole  eight  feet  above  my 
head.  The  lower  entrance  was  of  course  blocked 
up  by  the  rotten  wood." 

"  And  they  could  n't  get  at  you  ?  " 

"  No,  Jimmy  ;  but  I  was  in  a  dreadful  situa- 


i  I 


'a 


234 


GRANDPAPA  'S   IVOLF  STORY. 


I*  I  H 


1  8  'J 


tion.  At  first  I  did  not  fully  realize  it.  Chok- 
ing for  air,  my  throat  filled  with  particles  of  dry 
rot,  I  tried  to  climb  up  again.  But  the  hollow 
had  become  too  large.  Nothing  but  a  round 
shell  of  sound  wood,  a  few  inches  thick,  was 
left  around  me.  With  feet,  hands,  elbows,  and 
back,  I  strove  to  ascend  as  before.  But  I  could 
not.     I  was  stuck  fast ! 

*'  When  I  pushed  with  my  feet  I  could  only 
press  my  back  against  the  other  side  of  the 
enlarged  hole.  I  was  horrified.  Indeed,  I 
thought  the  tree  would  be  my  coffin.  There 
I  stood,  breathing  with  difficulty  even  when  I 
breathed  through  my  capuchin,  which  I  took 

« 

off"  of  my  blanket  overcoat.  And  there,  I  said 
to  myself,  I  was  doomed  to  stand  till  my  knees 
should  give  way  and  my  head  fall  forward,  and 
some  day,  after  many  years,  the  old  tree  would 
blow  down,  and  out  would  fall  my  white  and 
r- rattling  bo-o-nes." 

*'  Don't  — please,  grandpapa  !  "  Jenny  was 
trying  to  keep  from  crying. 


\ 


GRA.VDPAPA  'S   IVOLF  STORV. 


235 


'*  In  spite  01  my  vision  of  my  own  skull  and 
cross-bones,"  went  on  grandpapa,  solemnly,  "  I 
was  too  young  to  despair  wholly.  I  was  at  first 
more  annoyed  than  desperate.  To  be  trapped 
so,  to  die  in  a  hole  when  I  might  have  shot  a 
couple  of  wolves  and  split  the  heads  of  one  or 
two  more  with  my  hatchet  before  they  could 
have  had  boy  for  supper  —  this  thought  made 
me  very  angry.  And  that  brought  me  to  think- 
ing of  my  hatchet. 

"  It  was,  I  remembered,  beneath  my  feet  at 
the  bottom  of  the  lower  opening.  If  I  could 
get  hold  of  it,  I  might  use  it  to  chop  a  hole 
through  my  prison  wall. 

"  But  to  burrow  down  was  clearly  impossible. 

1  Nevertheless,  I  knelt  to  feel   the  punky  stuff 

under  my  feet.    The  absurdity  of  trying  to  work 

down  a  hole  without  having,  like  .„  squirrel,  any 

place  to  throw  out  the  material,  was  plain. 

"But  something  more  cheerful  occurred  to 
me.  As  I  knelt,  an  object  at  my  back  touched 
my  heels.     It  was  the  brass  point  of  my  hunt- 


'ii 


Al 


.,1 


\  t 


i 


w* 


I  I  ■ 


236 


GRANDPAPA'S   U'OLP  STORY. 


ing-knife  sheath.  Instantly  I  sprang  to  my 
feet,  thrust  my  revolver  back  into  its  case,  drew 
the  stout  knife,  and  drove  the  blade  into  the 
shell  of  pine. 

"  In  two  minutes  I  had  scooped  the  blade 
through.  In  five  minutes  I  had  my  face  at  a 
small  hole  that  gave  me  fresh  air.  In  half  an 
hour  I  had  hacked  out  a  space  big  enough  to 
put  my  shoulders  through. 

"  The  wolves,  when  they  saw  me  again,  were 
delighted.  As  for  me,  I  was  much  pleased  to 
see  them,  and  said  so.  At  the  compliment  they 
licked  their  jaws.  They  thought  I  was  coming 
down,  but  I  had  something  important  to  do 
first. 

"I  drew  my  pistol.  It  was  a  big  old- 
fashioned  Colt's  revolver.  With  the  first  round 
of  seven  shots  I  killed  three,  and  wounded 
another  badly." 

"  Then  the  rest  jumped  on  them  and  ate  them 
all  up,  didn't  they,  grandpapa?" 

''  No,  Jimmy,  I  'm  glad  to  say  they  did  n't. 


\ 


GRANDPAPA'S    WOLF  STORY. 


237 


Wolves  in  Russian  stories  do,  but  American 
wolves  are  not  cannibalistic ;  for  this  is  a  civi- 
lized country,  you  know. 

"  These  wolves  did  n't  even  notice  their  fallen 
friends.  They  devoted  their  attention  wholly  to 
me,  and  I  assure  you,  chickens,  that  I  was  much 
gratified  at  that. 

"  I  loaded  again.  It  was  a  good  deal  of 
trouble  in  those  days,  when  revolvers  wore  caps. 
I  aimed  very  carefully,  and  killed  four  more. 
The  other  ten  then  ran  away  —  at  least  some 
did  ;  three  could  drag  themselves  but  slowly. 

"  After  loading  again  I  dropped  down,  and 
started  for  camp.  Next  morning  we  came  back 
and  got  ten  skins,  after  looking  up  the  three 
wounded." 

"  And  you  got  only  eighty  dollars,  instead  of 
one  hundred  and  thirty-six,  grandpapa,"  said 
Jimmy,  ruefully. 

"  Well,  Jimmy,  that  was  better  than  furnish- 
ing the  pack  with  raw  boy  for  supper." 

"  Is  that  all,  grandpapa  ?  " 


J  H 


1  . 


238 


GRA  NDPA  PA  'S   PyOL  F  S  TOR  V. 


u 


Yes,  Jenny,  dear." 

Do  tell  us  another  story." 

"  Not  to-night,  chickens.  Not  to-night. 
Grandpapa  is  old  and  sleepy.  Good  night, 
dears ;  and  if  you  begin  to  dream  of  wolves,  be 
sure  you  change  the  subject." 

Grandpapa  walked  slowly  up  stairs. 

"Can  you  make  different  dreams  come, 
Jimmy?"  said  Jenny. 

"  You  goose  !     Grandpapa  was  pretending." 


// 


n. 


THE  WATERLOO    VETERAN. 


TS  Waterloo  a  dead  word  to  you?  the  name 
-^  of  a  plain  of  battle,  no  more  ?  Or  do  you 
see,  on  a  space  of  rising  ground,  the  little  long- 
coated  man  with  marble  features,  and  un- 
quenchable eyes  that  pierce  through  rolling 
smoke  to  where  the  relics  of  the  old  Guard 
of  France  stagger  and  rally  and  reach  fiercely 
again  up  the  hill  of  St.  Jean  toward  the  squares, 
set,  torn,  red,  re-formed,  stubborn,  mangled, 
victorious  beneath  the  unflinching  will  of  him 
behind  there,  —  the  Iron  Duke  of  England  ? 

Or  is  your  interest  in  the  fight  literary?  and 
do  you  see  in  a  pause  of  the  conflict  Major 
O'Dowd  sitting  on  the  carcass  of  Pyramus 
refreshing  liimself  from  that  case-bottle'  of 
sound  brandy?  George  Osborne  lying  yonder, 
all  his  fopperies  ended,  with  a  bullet  through  his 


i! 


i 

IT  ' 


i\ 


'\r 


240 


THE    IVATERLOO   VETERAN. 


heart?  Rawdon  Crawley  riding  stolidly  behind 
General  Tufto  along  the  front  of  the  shattered 
regiment  where  Captain  Dobbin  stands  heart- 
sick for  poor  Emily  ? 

Or  maybe  the  struggle  arranges  itself  in  your 
vision  around  one  figure  not  named  in  history 
or  fiction,  —  that  of  your  grandfather,  or  his 
father,  or  some  old  dead  soldier  of  the  great 
wars  whose  blood  you  exult  to  inherit,  or  some 
grim  veteran  whom  you  saw  tottering  to  the  roll- 
call  beyond  when  the  Queen  was  young  and  you 
were  a  little  boy. 

For  me  the  shadows  of  the  battle  are  so 
grouped  round  old  John  Locke  that  the  histo- 
rians, story-tellers,  and  painters  may  never  quite 
persuade  me  that  he  was  not  the  centre  and 
real  hero  of  the  action.  The  French  cuirassiers 
in  my  thought-pictures  charge  again  and  again 
vainly  against  old  John ;  he  it  is  who  breaks  the 
New  Guard ;  upon  the  ground  that  he  defends 
the  Emperor's  eyes  are  fixed  all  day  long.  It 
is  John  who  occasionally  glances  at  the  sky  with 


THE  WATERLOO   VETERAtf. 


241 


wonder  if  Blucher  has  failed  them.  Upon 
Shaw  the  Lifeguardsman,  and  John,  the  Duke 
plainly  most  relies,  and  the  words  that  Welling- 
ton actually  speaks  when  the  time  comes  for 
advance  are,  "  Up,  John,  and  at  them  ! " 

How  fate  drifted  the  old  veteran  of  Waterloo 
into  our  little  Canadian  Lake  Erie  village  I 
never  knew.  Drifted  him  ?  No ;  he  ever 
marched  as  if  under  the  orders  of  his  com- 
mander. Tall,  thin,  white-haired,  close-shaven, 
and  always  in  knee-breeches  and  long  stockings, 
his  was  an  antique  and  martial  figure.  "  Fresh 
white-fish  '*  was  his  cry,  which  ha  delivered  as 
if  calling  all  the  village  to  fall  in  for  drill. 

So  impressive  was  his  demeanor  that  he  dig- 
nified his  occupation.  For  years  after  he  dis- 
appeared, the  peddling  of  white-fish  by  horse 
and  cart  was  regarded  in  that  district  as  pecu- 
liarly respectacle.  It  was  a  glorious  trade  when 
old  John  Locke  held  the  steelyards  and  served 
out  the  glittering  fish  with  an  air  of  distributing 
ammunition  for  a  long  day's  combat. 

i6 


t 


II 


242 


THE   WATERLOO   VETERAN. 


I  believe  I  noticed,  on  the  first  day  I  saw 
him,  how  he  tapped  his  left  breast  with  a  proud 
gesture  when  he  had  done  with  a  lot  of  custom- 
ers and  was  about  to  march  again  at  the  head 
of  his  horse.  That  restored  him  from  trade  to 
his  soldiership  —  he  had  saluted  his  Waterloo 
medal !  There  beneath  his  threadbare  old  blue 
coat  it  lay,  always  felt  by  the  heart  of  the  hero. 

**  Why  does  n't  he  wear  it  outside  ?  "  I  once 
asked. 

"He  used  to,"  said  my  father,  "till  Hiram 
Beaman,  the  druggist,  asked  him  what  he  'd 
*  take  for  the  bit  of  pewter.' " 

"  What  did  old  John  say,  sir?  " 

"  *  Take  for  the  bit  of  pewter  ! '  said  he,  look- 
ing hard  at  Beaman  with  scorn.  'I've  took 
better  men's  lives  nor  ever  yours  was  for  to  get 
it,  and  I  'd  sell  my  own  for  it  as  quick  as  ever 
I  offered  it  before.' 

More  fool  you,*  said  Beaman. 
*  You  're  nowt,'  said  old   John,  very  calm 
and    cold,   *  you 're   nowt    but    walking    dirt.' 


u  t 


t( 


THE   WATERLOO   VETERAlf. 


243 


f 


From  that  day  forth  he  would  never  sell  Bea- 
man  a  fish  \  he  would  n't  touch  his  money." 

It  must  have  been  late  in  1854  or  early  in 
1855  that  I  first  saw  the  famous  medal.  Going 
home  from  school  on  a  bright  winter  afternoon, 
I  met  old  John  walking  very  erect,  without  his 
usual  fish-supply.  A  dull  round  white  spot  was 
clasped  on  the  left  breast  of  his  coat. 

"  Mr.  Locke,"  said  the  small  boy,  staring 
with  admiration,  "  is  that  your  glorious  Waterloo 
medal?" 

"  You  're  a  good  little  lad  !  "  He  stooped  to 
let  me  see  the  noble  pewter.  "  War 's  declared 
against  Rooshia,  and  now  it 's  right  to  show  it. 
The  old  regiment 's  sailed,  and  my  only  son  is 
with  the  colors." 

Then  he  took  me  by  the  hand  and  led  me 
into  the  village  store,  where  the  lawyer  read 
aloud  the  news  from  the  paper  that  the  veteran 
gave  him.  In  those  days  there  was  no  railway 
within  fifty  miles  of  us.  It  had  chanced  that 
some  fisherman  brought  old  John  a  later  paper 
than  any  previously  received  in  the  village. 


i  -1 


i 


I 


I  i 


m 


244 


THE    ITATERLOO   VETERAN: 


"  Ay,  but  the  Duke  is  gone,"  said  he,  shaking 
his  white  head,  "  and  it 's  curious  to  be  fighting 
on  the  same  side  with  another  Boney." 

All  that  winter  and  the  next,  all  the  long 
summer  between,  old  John  displayed  his  medal. 
When  the  report  of  Alma  came,  his  remarks  on 
the  French  failure  to  get  into  the  fi.^ht  were 
severe.  "  What  was  they  ever,  at  best,  without 
Boney?  "  he  would  inquire.  But  a  letter  from 
his  son  after  Inkermann  changed  all  that. 

"  Half  of  us  was  killed,  and  the  rest  of  us 
clean  tired  with  fighting,"  wrote  Corporal 
Locke.  "  What  with  a  bullet  through  the  flesh 
of  my  right  leg,  and  the  fatigue  of  using  the 
bayonet  so  long,  I  was  like  to  drop.  The  Rus- 
sians was  coming  on  again  as  if  there  was  no 
end  to  them,  when  strange  drums  came  sound- 
ing in  the  mist  behind  us.  With  that  we 
closed  up  and  faced  half-round,  thinking  they 
had  outflanked  us  and  the  day  was  gone,  so 
there  was  nothing  more  to  do  but  make  out  to 
die  hard,  like  the  sons  of  Waterloo  men.     You 


THE    WATERLOO   VETERAN. 


245 


would  have  been  pleased  to  see  the  looks  of 
what  'was  left  of  the  old  regiment,  father.  Then 
all  of  a  sudden  a  French  column  came  up  the 
rise  out  of  the  mist,  screaming,  *  Vive  VEm- 
pereur  ! '  their  drums  beating  the  charge.  We 
gave  them  room,  for  we  were  too  dead  tired  to 
go  first.  On  they  went  like  mad  at  the  Rus- 
sians, so  that  was  the  end  of  a  hard  morning's 
work.  I  was  down,  —  fainted  with  loss  of  blood, 
—  but  I  will  soon  be  fit  for  duty  again.  When 
I  came  to  myseJf  there  was  a  Frenchman  pour- 
ing brandy  down  my  throat,  and  talking  in  his 
gibberish  as  kind  as  any  Christian.  Never  a 
word  will  I  say  agin  them  red-legged  French 
again." 

"  Show  me  the  man  that  would  !  "  growled  old 
John.  "  It  was  never  in  them  French  to  act 
cowardly.  Did  n't  they  beat  all  the  world,  and 
even  stand  up  many  's  the  day  agen  ourselves 
and  the  Duke  ?  They  did  n't  beat,  —  it  would  n't 
be  in  reason,  —  but  they  tried  brave  enough,  and 
what  more  'd  you  ask  of  mortal  men  ?  " 


i;' 


: 


<i 


246 


THE   WATERLOO   VETERAN, 


m 


With  the  ending  of  the  Crimean  War  our 
village  was  illuminated.  Rows  of  tallow  candles 
in  every  window,  fireworks  in  a  vacant  field,  and 
a  torchlight  procession !  Old  John  marched 
at  its  head  in  full  regimentals,  straight  as  a 
ramrod,  the  hero  of  the  night.  His  son  had 
been  promoted  for  bravery  on  the  field.  After 
John  came  a  dozen  gray  miUtiamen  of  Queen- 
ston  Heights,  Lundy's  Lane,  and  Chippewa; 
next  some  forty  volunteers  of  '37.  And  we 
boys  of  the  U.  E.  Loyalist  settlement  cheered 
and  cheered,  thrilled  with  an  intense  vague 
knowledge  that  the  old  army  of  Wellington  kept 
ghostly  step  with  John,  while  aerial  trumpets 
and  drums  pealed  and  beat  with  rejoicing  at 
the  fresh  glory  of  the  race  and  the  union  of 
English-speaking  men  umiionsciously  celebrated 
and  symbolized  by  the  little  rustic  parade. 

After  that  the  old  man  again  wore  his  medal 
concealed.  The  Chinese  War  of  1857  was  too 
contemptible  to  celebrate  by  displaying  his 
badge  of  Waterloo. 


THE   WATERLOO   VETERAN. 


247 


Then  came  the  dreadful  tale  of  the  Sepoy 
mutiny  —  Meerut,  Delhi,  Cawnpore  !  After  the 
tale  of  Nana  Sahib's  massacre  of  women  and 
children  was  read  to  old  John  he  never  smiled, 
T  '\ir'  Week  after  weeV.  month  after  month, 
as  nideoui  tidings  poured  ateadily  in,  his  face 
became  more  haggard,  gray,  and  dreadful.  The 
feeling  that  he  was  too  old  for  use  seemed  lo 
shame  him.  He  no  longer  carried  his  head 
,  high,  as  of  yore.  That  his  son  waa  not  march- 
ing behind  Havelock  with  the  avenging  army 
seemed  to  cut  our  veteran  sorely.  Sergeant 
Locke  had  sailed  with  the  old  regiment  to  join 
Outram  in  Persia  before  the  Sepoys  broke 
loose.  It  was  at  this  time  that  old  John  was 
first  heard  to  say,  "  I  'm  'feared  something  *s 
gone  wrong  with  my  heart." 

Months  went  by  before  we  learned  that  the 
troops  for  Persia  had  been  stopped  on  their 
way  and  thrown  into  India  against  the  mutineers. 
At  that  news  old  John  marched  into  the  village 
with  a  prouder  air  than  he  had  worn  for  many 
a  day.     His  medal  was  again  on  his  breast. 


248 


THE   WATERLOO    VETERAN. 


It  was  but  the  next  month,  I  think,  that  the 
village  lawyer  stood  reading  aloud  the  account 
of  the  capture  of  a  great  Sepoy  fort.  The  vete- 
ran entered  the  post-office,  and  all  made  way 
for  him.    The  reading  went  on :  — 

"The  blowing  open  of  the  Northern  Gate 
was  the  grandest  personal  exploit  of  the  attack. 
It  was  performed  by  native  sappers,  covered 
by  the  fire  of  two  regiments,  and  headed  by 
Lieutenants  Holder  and  Dacre,  Sergeants  Green, 
Carmody,  Macpherson,  and  Locke." 

The  lawyer  paused.  Every  eye  turned  to 
the  face  of  the  old  Waterloo  soldier.  He 
straightened  up  to  keener  attention,  threw  out 
his  chest,  and  tapped  the  glorious  medal  in 
salute  of  the  names  of  the  brave. 

"  God  be  praised,  my  son  was  there !  "  he 
said.     "Read  on." 

"Sergeant  Carmody,  while  laying  the  pow- 
der, was  killed,  and  the  native  havildar  wounded. 
The  powder  having  been  laid,  the  advance 
party  slipped  down  into  the  ditch  to  allow  the 


\ 


THE    WATERLOO   VETERAN. 


249 


firing  party,  under  Lieutenant  Dacre,  to  do  its 
duty.  While  trying  to  fire  the  charge  he  was 
shot  through  one  arm  and  leg.  He  sank,  but 
handed  the  match  to  Sergeant  Macphe^son, 
who  was  at  once  shot  dead.  Sergeant  Locke, 
already  wounded  severely  in  the  shoulder,  then 
seized  the  match,  and  succeeded  in  firing  the 
train.  He  fell  at  that  moment,  literally  riddled 
with  bullets." 

"  Read  on,"  said  old  John,  in  a  deeper  voice. 
All  forbore  to  look  twice  upon  his  face. 

"  Others  of  the  party  were  falling,  when  the 
mighty  gate  was  blown  to  fragments,  and  the 
waiting  regiments  of  infantry,  under  Colonel 
Campbell,  rushed  into  the  breach." 

There  was  a  long  silence  in  the  post-office, 
till  old  John  spoke  once  more. 

"  The  Lord  God  be  thanked  for  all  his  deal- 
ings with  us  !  My  son,  Sergeant  Locke,  died 
well  for  England,  Queen,  and  Duty." 

Nervously  fingering  the  treasure  on  his  breast, 
the  old  soldier  wheeled  about,   and  marched 


25© 


THE    WATERLOO   VETERAN. 


proudly  straight  down  the  middle  of  the  village 
street  to  his  lonely  cabin. 

The  villagers  never  saw  him  in  life  again. 
Next  day  he  did  not  appear.  All  refrained 
from  intruding  on  his  mourning.  But  in  the 
evening,  when  the  Episcopalian  minister  heard 
of  his  parishioner's  loss,  he  walked  to  old  John's 
home.  .  .  . 

There,  stretched  upon  his  straw  bed,  he  lay 
in  his  antique  regimentals,  stiffer  than  At  Atten- 
tion, all  his  medals  fastened  below  that  of 
Waterloo  above  his  quiet  heart.  His  right 
hand  lay  on  an  open  Bible,  and  his  face  wore  an 
expression  as  of  looking  for  ever  and  ever  upon 
Sergeant  Locke  and  the  Great  Commander 
who  takes  back  unto  Him  the  heroes  He 
fashions  to  sweeten  the  world. 


JOHN  BEDELL,  U.  E.  LOYALIST/ 


■A 


renegade  !  A  rebel  against  his  king  ! 
A  black-hearted  traitor  !  You  dare  to 
tell  me  that  you  love  George  Winthrop !  Soii 
of  canting,  lying  Ezra  Winthrop  !  By  the  Eter- 
nal, I  '11  shoot  him  on  sight  if  he  comes  this 
side  I " 

While  old  John  Bedell  was  speaking,  he  tore 
and  flung  away  a  letter,  reached  for  his  long 
rifle    on   its    pins    above    the    chimney-place, 

*  The  United  Empire  Loyalists  were  American  Tories 
who  forsook  their  homes  and  property  after  the  Revolu- 
tion in  order  to  live  in  Canada  under  the  British  Flag. 
It  is  impossible  to  understand  Canadian  feeling  for  the 
Crown  at  the  present  day  without  understanding  the 
U.  E.  Loyalist  spirit,  which,  though  Canadians  are  not 
now  unfriendly  to  the  United  States,  is  still  the  most 
important  political  force  in  the  Dominion,  and  holds  it 
firmly  in  allegiance  to  the  Queen. 


I 


i 


i 


252 


JOHN  BEDELL,   U.  E.  LOYALIST. 


dashed  its  butt  angrily  to  tlie  lloor,  and  poured 
powder  into  his  palm. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  father  1  You  would 
not !  You  could  not !  The  war  is  over.  It 
would  be  murder  1 "  cried  Ruth  Bedell,  sobbing. 

"  Would  n't  I  ?  "  He  poured  the  powder  in. 
"  Yes,  by  gracious,  quicker  'n  I  'd  kill  a  rattle- 
snake !  "  He  placed  the  round  bu  let  on  the 
little  square  of  greased  rag  at  the  muzzle  of  his 
rifle.  "  A  rank  traitor  —  bone  and  blood  of 
those  who  drove  out  loyal  men  !  "  —  he  crowded 
the  tight  lead  home,  dashed  the  ramrod  into 
place,  look  3d  to  the  flint.  "  Rest  there,  — 
wake  up  for  George  Winthrop  !  "  and  the  fierce 
old  man  replaced  rifle  and  powder-horn  on 
their  pegs. 

Bedell's  hatred  for  the  foes  who  had  beaten 
down  King  George's  cause,  and  imposed  the 
alternative  of  confiscation  or  the  oath  of  alle- 
giance on  the  vanquished,  was  considered  in- 
tense, even  by  his  brother  Loyalists  of  the 
Niagara  frontier. 


7(?//.V  BEDELL,   U.  E.  LOVALIST, 


253 


"  The  Squire  kind  o'  sees  his  boys'  blood 
when  the  sky 's  red,"  said  they  in  explanation. 
But  IJedcU  was  so  much  an  enthusiast  that  he 
could  almost  rejoice  because  his  three  stark  sons 
had  gained  the  prize  of  death  in  battle.  He 
was  too  brave  to  hate  the  fighting-men  he  had 
so  often  confronted;  but  he  ..bhorred  the  poli- 
ticians, especially  the  intimate  civic  enemies  on 
whom  he  had  poured  scorn  bv'fore  t'  e  armrl 
struggle  began.  More  than  any  he  hated  Frra 
Winthrop,  the  lawyer,  arch-revolutior:  t  of  their 
native  town,  who  had  never  used  a  \  'eapon  but 
his  tongue.  And  now  his  Ruth,  the  beloved  and 
only  child  left  to  his  exiled  age,  had  confessed 
her  love  for  Ezra  Winthrop's  son  !  They  had 
been  boy  and  girl,  pretty  maiden  and  bright 
stripling  together,  without  the  Squire  suspect- 
ing —  he  could  not,  even  now,  conceive  clearly 
so  wild  a  thing  as  their  af^'cHon  !  The  confes- 
sion burned  in  his  heart  like  veritable  fire,  —  a 
raging  anguish  of  mivigled  loathing  and  love. 
He    stood   now  gazing    at   Ruth    dumbly,  his 


! 


i 


254         yOHtf  BEDELL,   U.  E.  LOYALIST. 

hands  clenched,  head  sometimes  mechanically 
quivering,  anger,  hate,  love,  grief,  tumultuous  in 
his  soul. 

Ruth  glanced  up  —  her  father  seemed  about 
to  speak  —  she  bowed  again,  shuddering  as 
though  the  coming  words  might  kill.  Still  there 
was  silence,  —  a  long  silence.  Bedell  stood 
motionless,  poised,  breathing  hard  —  the  silence 
oppressed  the  girl  —  each  moment  her  terror 
increased  —  expectant  attention  became  suffer- 
ing that  demanded  his  voice  —  and  still  was 
silence  —  save  for  the  dull  roar  of  Niagara 
that  more  and  more  pervaded  the  air.  The 
torture  of  waiting  for  the  words  —  a  curse 
against  her,  she  feared  —  overwore  Ruth's  en- 
durance. She  looked  up  suddenly,  and  John 
Bedell  saw  in  hers  the  beloved  eyes  of  his  dead 
wife,  shrinking  with  intolerable  fear.  He 
groaned  heavily,  flung  up  his  hands  despairingly, 
and  strode  out  toward  the  river. 
-  How  crafty  smooth  the  green  Niagara 
Sweeps  toward  the  plunge   beneath   that   per- 


yOHN  BEDELL,  U.  £.  LOYALIST. 


255 


petual  white  cloud  above  the  Falls  1  From 
Bedell's  clearing  below  Navy  Island,  two  miles 
above  the  Falls,  he  could  see  the  swaying  and 
rolling  of  the  mist,  ever  rushing  up  to  expand 
and  overhang.  The  terrible  stream  had  a  pro- 
found fascination  for  him,  with  its  racing  eddies 
eating  at  the  shore;  its  long  weeds,  visible 
through  the  clear  water,  trailing  close  down  to 
the  bottom ;  its  inexorable,  eternal,  onward 
pouring.  Because  it  was  so  mighty  and  so 
threatening,  he  rejoiced  grimly  in  the  awful 
river.  To  float,  watching  cracks  and  ledges  of 
its  flat  bottom-rock  drift  quickly  upward;  to 
bend  to  his  oars  only  when  white  crests  of  the 
rapids  yelled  for  his  life ;  to  win  escape  by 
sheer  strength  from  points  so  low  down  that  he 
sometimes  doubted  but  the  greedy  forces  had 
been  tempted  too  long ;  to  stake  his  life,  watch- 
ing tree-tops  for  a  sign  that  he  could  yet  save  it, 
was  the  dreadful  pastime  by  which  Bedell  often 
quelled  passionate  promptings  to  revenge  his 
exile.     "  The  Falls  is  bound  to  get  the  Squire, 


!' 


256         JOHN  SEVELL,  U.  E.  LOYALIST. 


some- day,"  said  the  banished  settlers.  But  the 
Squire's  skiff  was  clean  built  as  a  pickerel,  and 
his  old  arms  iron-strong.  Now  when  he  had 
gone  forth  from  the  beloved  child,  who  seemed 
to  him  so  traitorous  to  his  love  and  all  loyalty, 
he  went  instinctively  to  spend  his  rage  upon  the 
river. 

Ruth  Bedell,  gazing  at  the  loaded  rifle,  shud- 
dered, not  with  dread  only,  but  a  sense  of  hav- 
ing been  treacherous  to  her  father.  She  had 
not  told  him  all  the  truth.  George  Winthrop 
himself,  having  made  his  Way  secretly  through 
the  forest  from  Lake  Ontario,  had  given  her 
his  own  letter  asking  leave  from  the  Squire  to 
visit  his  newly  made  cabin.  From  the  moment 
of  arrival  her  lover  had  implored  her  to  fly 
with  him.  But  filial  love  was  strong  in  Ruth 
to  give  hope  that  her  father  would  yield  to 
the  yet  stronger  affection  freshened  in  her 
heart.  Believing  their  union  might  be  per- 
mitted, she  had  pledged  herself  to  escape  with 
her  lover  if  it  were  forbidden.     Now  he  waited 


yOHN  BEDELL^  U,  E.   LOYALIST. 


257 


by  the  hickory  wood  for  a  signal  to  conceal 
himself  or  come  forward. 

When  Ruth  saw  her  father  far  down  the 
river,  she  stepped  to  the  flagstaff  he  had  raised 
before  building  the  cabin  —  his  first  duty  being 
to  hoist  the  Union  Jack !  It  was  the  largest 
flag  he  could  procure ;  he  could  see  it  flying 
defiantly  all  day  long ;  at  night  he  could  hear 
its  glorious  folds  whipping  in  the  wind ;  the  hot 
old  Loyalist  loved  to  fancy  his  foe  man  cursing 
at  it  from  the  other  side,  nearly  three  miles 
away.  Ruth  hauled  the  flag  down  a  little,  then 
ran  it  up  to  the  mast-head  again. 

At  that,  a  tall  young  fellow  came  springing 
into  the  clearing,  jumping  exultantly  over  brush- 
heaps  and  tree-trunks,  his  queue  waggling,  his 
eyes  bright,  glad,  under  his  three-cornered  hat. 
Joying  that  her  father  had  yielded,  he  ran  for- 
ward till  he  saw  Ruth's  tears. 

"What,  sweetheart! — crying?  It  was  the 
signal  to  come  on,"  cried  he. 

"  Yes  ;   to  see  you  sooner,  George.     Father 

17 


i! 


258 


JOHN  BEDELL,   U.  E,  LOYALIST. 


is  out  yonder.  But  no,  he  will  never,  never 
consent." 

"  Then  you  will  come  with  me,  love,"  he 
said,  taking  her  hands. 

"  No,  no  \  I  dare  not,"  sobbed  Ruth.  "  Father 
would  overtake  us.  He  swears  to  shoot  you  on 
sight !  Go,  George  !  Escape  while  you  can  ! 
Oh,  if  he  should  find  you  here  ! " 

"  But,  darling  love,  we  need  not  fear.  We 
can  escape  easily.  I  know  the  forest  path. 
But  —  "    Then  he  thought  how  weak  her  pace. 

"  We  might  cross  here  before  he  could  come 


up ! "  cried  Winthrop,  looking  toward  where 
the  Squire's  boat  was  now  a  distant  blotch. 

"  No,  no,"  wailed  Ruth,  yet  yielding  to  his 
embrace.  *'  This  is  the  last  time  I  shall  see  you 
forever  and  forever.  Go,  dear,  —  good-bye, 
my  love,  my  love." 

But  he  clasped  her  in  his  strong  arms,  kiss- 
ing, imploring,  cheering  her,  —  and  how  should 
true  love  choose  hopeless  renunciation?  „ 


^^. 


JOHN  BEDELL,    U.  E.  LOYALIST. 


259 


Tempting,  defying,  regaining  his  lost  ground, 
drifting  down  again,  trying  hard  to  tire  out  and 
subdue  his  heart-pangs,  Bedell  dallied  with 
death  more  closely  than  ever.  He  had  let  his 
skiff  drift  far  down  toward  the  Falls.  Often  he 
could  see  the  wide  smooth  curve  where  the  green 
volume  first  lapses  vastly  on  a  lazy  slope,  to 
shoulder  up  below  as  a  huge  calm  billow,  before 
pitching  into  the  madness  of  waves  whose  con- 
fusion of  tossing  and  tortured  crests  hurries  to 
the  abyss.  The  afternoon  grew  toward  evening 
before  he  pulled  steadily  home,  crawling  away 
from  the  roarers  against  the  cruel  green,  watch- 
ing the  ominous  cloud  with  some  such  grim 
humor  as  if  under  observation  by  an  overpower- 
ing but  baffled  enemy. 

Approaching  his  landing,  a  shout  drew  Bedell's 
glance  ashore  to  a  group  of  men  excitedly  gestic- 
ulating. They  seemed  motioning  him  to  watch 
the  American  shore.  Turning,  he  saw  a  boat  in 
midstream,  where  no  craft  then  on  the  river, 
except    his  own  skiff,   could    be   safe,   unless 


i 


26o 


JOHN  BEDELL,   U.  E.  LOYALIST. 


manned  by  several  good  men.  Only  two  oars 
were  flashing.  Bedell  could  make  out  two 
figures  indistinctly.  It  was  clear  they  were 
doomed,  —  though  still  a  full  mile  above  the 
point  whence  he  had  come,  they  were  much 
farther  out  than  he  when  near  the  rapids.  Yet 
one  life  might  be  saved  !  Instantly  Bedell's 
bow  turned  outward,  and  cheers  flung  to  him 
from  ashore.  ' 

At  that  moment  he  looked  to  his  own  land- 
ing-place, and  saw  that  his  larger  boat  was  gone. 
Turning  again,  he  angrily  recognized  it,  but 
kept  right  on  —  he  must  try  to  rescue  even  a 
thief.  He  wondered  Ruth  had  not  prevented 
the  theft,  but  had  no  suspicion  of  the  truth. 
Always  he  had  refused  to  let  her  go  out  upon 
the  river  —  mortally  fearing  it  for  her. 

Thrusting  his  skiff  mightily  forward,  —  often 
it  glanced,  half-whirled  by  up-whelming  and 
spreading  spaces  of  water,  —  the  old  Loyalist's 
heart  was  quit  of  his  pangs,  and  sore  only  with 
certainty  that  he  must  abandon  one  human  soul 


\v 


\ 


JOHN  BEDELL,   U.  E.  LOYALIST. 


261 


to  death.  By  the  time  that  he  could  reach  the 
larger  boat  his  would  be  too  near  the  rapids  for 
escape  with  three  !  , 

When  George  Winthrop  saw  Bedell  in  pursuit, 
he  bent  to  his  ash-blades  more  strongly,  and 
R-'^h,  trembling  to  remember  her  father's  threats, 
urged  her  lover  to  speed.  They  feared  the 
pursuer  only,  quite  unconscious  that  they  were 
in  the  remorseless  grasp  of  the  river.  Ruth  had 
so  often  seen  her  father  far  lower  down  than 
they  had  yet  drifted  that  she  did  not  realize  the 
truth,  and  George,  a  stranger  in  the  Niagara 
district,  was  unaware  of  the  length  of  the  cata- 
racts above  the  Falls.  He  was  also  deceived  by 
the  stream's  treacherous  smoothness,  and  in- 
stead of  half-upward,  pulled  straight  across,  as 
if  certainly  able  to  land  anywhere  he  might 
touch  the  American  shore. 

Bedell  looked  over  his  shoulder  often.  When 
he  distinguished  a  woman,  he  put  on  more 
force,  but  slackened  soon  —  the  pull  home 
would  tax   his   endurance,   he   reflected.      In 


\  1 


m 


262 


yO//Ar  BEDELL,  V.  E.  LOYALIST. 


some  sort  it  was  a  relief  to  know  that  one  was 
a  woman;  he  had  been  anticipating  trouble 
with  two  men  equally  bent  on  being  saved. 
That  the  man  would  abandon  himself  bravely, 
the  Squire  took  as  a  matter  of  course.  For  a 
while  he  thought  of  pulling  with  the  woman  to 
the  American  shore,  more  easily  to  be  gained 
from  the  point  where  the  rescue  must  occur. 
But  he  rejected  the  plan,  confident  he  could 
win  back,  for  he  had  sworn  never  to  set  foot  on 
that  soil  unless  in  war.  Had  it  been  possible 
to  save  both,  he  would  have  been  forced  to 
disregard  that  vow ;  but  the  Squire  knew  that  it 
was  impossible  for  him  to  reach  the  New  York 
Shore  with  two  passengers  —  two  would  over- 
load his  boat  beyond  escape.  Man  or  woman 
—  one  must  go  over  uie  Falls. 

Having  carefully  studied  landmarks  for  his 
position,  Bedell  turned  to  look  again  at  the 
doomed  boat,  and  a  well-known  ribbon  caught 
his  attention  !  The  old  man  dropped  his  oars, 
confused  with  horror.    "  My  God,  my  God  !  it 's 


W 


JOHN  BEDELL,   U.  E.  LOYALIST. 


263 


Ruth !  "  he  cried,  and  the  whole  truth  came 
with  another  look,  for  he  had  not  forgotten 
George  Winthrop.  , 

"  Your  father  stops,  Ruth.  Perhaps  he  is  in 
pain,"  said  George  to  the  quaking  girl. 

She  looked  back.  "What  can  it  be?"  she 
cried,  filial  love  returning  overmasteringly. 

"  Perhaps  he  is  only  tired."  George  affected 
carelessness,  —  his  first  wish  was  to  secure  his 
bride,  —  and  pulled  hard  away  to  get  all  advan- 
tage from  Bedell's  halt. 

"  Tired  !  He  is  in  danger  of  the  Falls,  then  ! " 
screamed  Ruth.    "  Stop  !  Turn  !  Back  to  him  ! " 

Winthrop  instantly  prepared  to  obey.  "  Yes, 
darling,"  he  said,  "we  must  not  think  of  our- 
selves. We  must  go  back  to  save  him  !  "  Yet 
his  was  a  sore  groan  at  turning;  what  Duty 
ordered  was  so  hard,  —  he  must  give  up  his  love 
for  the  sake  of  his  enemy. 

But  while  Winthrop  was  still  pulling  round, 
the  old  Loyalist  resumed  rowing,  with  a  more 
rapid  stroke  that  soon  brought  him  alongside. 


264 


yOHN  BEDELL,   U.  E.   LOYALIST. 


In  those  moments  of  waiting,  all  Bedell's  life, 
his  personal  hatreds,  his  loves,  his  sorrows,  had 
been  reviewed  before  his  soul.  He  had  seen 
again  his  sons,  the  slain  in  battle,  in  the  pride 
of  their  young  might ;  and  the  gentle  eyes  of 
Ruth  had  pleaded  with  him  beneath  his  dead 
wife's  brow.  Into  those  beloved,  unforgotten, 
visionary  eyes  he  looked  with  an  encouraging, 
strengthening  gaze,  —  now  that  the  deed  to  be 
done  was  as  clear  before  him  as  the  face  of 
Almighty  God.  In  accepting  it  the  darker  pas- 
sions that  had  swayed  his  stormy  life  fell  sud- 
denly away  from  their  hold  on  his  soul.  How 
trivial  had  been  old  disputes !  how  good  at 
heart  old  well-known  civic  enemies  !  how  poor 
seemed  hate  !  how  mean  and  poor  seemed  all 
but  Love  and  Loyalty  ! 

Resolution  and  deep  peace  had  come  upon 
the  man. 

The  lovers  wondered  at  his  look.  No  wrath 
was  there.  The  old  eyes  were  calm  and  cheer- 
ful,  a  gentle   smile   flickered    about  his  lips. 


\^ 


'JOHN  BEDELL,   U.  E.  LOYALIST. 


265 


/ 


Only  that  he  was  very  pale,  Ruth  would  have 
been  wholly  glad  for  the  happy  change. 

"  forgive  me,  father,"  she  cried,  as  he  laid 
hand  on  their  boat. 

"  I  do,  my  child,"  he  answered.  "  Come 
now  without  an  instant's  delay  to  me." 

"  Oh,  father,  if  you  would  let  us  be  happy  !  " 
cried  Ruth,  heart-torn  by  two  loves. 

*'  Dear,  you  shall  be  happy.  I  was  wrong, 
child  ;  I  did  not  understand  how  you  loved  him. 
But  come  !  You  hesitate  1  Winthrop,  my  son, 
you  are  in  some  danger.  Into  this  boat  in- 
stantly i  both  of  you  !  Take  the  oars,  George. 
Kiss  me,  dear,  m;  Lluth,  once  more.  Good-bye, 
my  little  girl.  Winthrop,  be  good  to  her.  And 
may  God  bless  you  both  forever  !  " 

As  the  old  Squire  spoke,  he  stepped  into  the 
larger  boat,  instantly  releasing  the  skiff.  His 
imperative  gentleness  had  secured  his  object 
without  loss  of  time,  and  the  boats  were  apart 
with  Winthrop's  readiness  to  pull. 

"  Now   row  !      Row   for   her   life  to  yonder 


266 


JOHN  BEDELL,   U.  E.  LOV    LiST. 


shore  !  Bow  well  up  1  Away,  or  the  Falls  will 
have  her  I  "shouted  Bedell, 

**  But  you  1  "  cried  Winthrop,  bending  for  his 
stroke.  Yet  he  did  not  comprehend  Bedell's 
meaning.  Till  the  last  the  old  man  had  spoken 
without  strong  excitement.  Dread  of  the  rjver 
was  not  on  George;  his  bliss  was  supreme  in 
his  thought,  and  he  took  the  Squire's  order  for 
one  of  exaggerated  alarm. 

"  Row,  I  say,  with  all  your  strength  1 "  cried 
Bedell,  wilh  a  flash  of  anger  that  sent  the  young 
fellow  away  instantly.  "  Row  !  Concern  your- 
self not  for  me.  I  am  going  home.  Row  !  for 
her  life,  Winthrop  !  God  will  deliver  you  yet. 
Good-bye,  children.  Remember  always  ray 
blessing  is  freely  given  you." 

"  God  bless  and  keep  you  forever,  father !  " 
cried  Ruth,  from  the  distance,  as  her  lover 
pulled  away. 

They  landed,  conscious  of  having  passed  a 
swift  current,  indeed,  but  quite  unthinking  of 
the  price  paid  for  their  safety.     Looking  back 


\ 


JOHN  BEDELL,  U.  E.  LOYALIST. 


267 


on  the  darkling  river,  they  saw  nothing  of  the 
old  man.  . 

*•  Poor  father  1  "  sighed  Ruth,  "  how  kind  he 
was  1  I  'm  sore-hearted  for  thinking  of  him  at 
home,  so  lonely." 

Left  alone  in  the  clumsy  boat,  Bedell 
stretched  with  the  long,  heavy  oars  for  his  own 
shore,  making  appearance  of  strong  exertion. 
But  when  he  no  longer  feared  that  his  children 
might  turn  back  with  sudden  understanding, 
and  vainly,  to  his  aid,  he  dragged  the  boat 
slowly,  watching  her  swift  drift  down  —  down 
toward  the  towering  mist.  Then  as  he  gazed  at 
the  cloud,  rising  in  two  distinct  volumes,  came  a 
thought  spurring  the  loyalist  spirit  in  an  instant. 
He  was  not  yet  out  of  American  water  I  There- 
after he  pulled  steadily,  powerfully,  noting  land- 
marks anxiously,  studying  currents,  considering 
always  their  trend  to  or  from  his  own  shore. 
Half  an  hour  had  gone  when  he  again  dropped 
into  slower  motion.  Then  he  could  see  Goat 
Island's  upper  end  between  him  and  the  mist  of 
the  American  Fall. 


268 


yOHN  BEDELL,   U.  E.  LOYALIST. 


m 
in 


K 


Now  the  old  man  gave  himself  up  to  intense 
curiosity,  looking  over  into  the  water  with  fasci- 
nated inquiry.  He  had  never  been  so  far  down 
the  river.  Darting  beside  their  shadows,  deep 
in  the  clear  flood,  were  nov^  larger  fishes  than 
he  had  ever  taken,  and  all  moved  up  as  if 
hurrying  to  escape.  How  fast  the  long  trailing, 
swaying,  single  weeds,  and  the  crevices  in  flat 
rock  whence  they  so  strangely  grew,  went  up 
stream  and  away  as  if  drawn  backward.  The 
sameness  of  the  bottom  to  that  higher  up  inter- 
ested him  —  where  then  did  the  current  begin 
to  sweep  clean?  He  should  certainly  know 
that  soon,  he  thought,  without  a  touch  of  fear, 
having  utterly  accepted  death  when  he  deter- 
mined it  were  base  to  carry  his  weary  old  life  a 
little  longer,  and  let  Ruth's  young  love  die. 
Now  the  Falls'  heav^y  monotone  was  overborne 
by  terrible  sounds  —  a  mingled  clashing,  shriek- 
ing, groaning,  and  run  ibling,  as  of  great  bowlders 
churned  in  their  beds. 

Bedell  was  nearing  the  first  long  swoop  down- 


yOHM  BEDELL,   U.  E.  LOYALIST. 


269 


ward  at  the  rapids'  head  when  those  watching 
him  from  the  high  bank  below  the  Chippewa 
River's  mouth  saw  him  put  his  boat  stern  with 
the  current  and  cease  rowing  entirely,  facing 
fairly  the  up-rushing  mist  to  which  he  was  being 
hurried.  Then  they  observed  him  stooping,  as 
if  writing,  for  a  time.  Something  flashed  in 
his  hands,  and  then  he  knelt  with  head  bowed 
down.     Kneeling,  t'ley  prayed,  too. 

Now  he  was  almost  on  the  brink  of  the  cas- 
cades. Then  he  arose,  and,  glancing  backward 
to  his  home,  caught  sight  of  his  friends  on  the 
high  shore.  Calmly  he  waved  a  farewell.  What 
then?  Thrice  round  he  flung  his  hat,  with  a 
gesture  they  knew  full  well.  Some  had  seen 
that  exultant  waving  in  front  of  ranks  of  battle. 
As  clearly  as  though  the  roar  of  waters  had  not 
drowned  his  ringing  voice,  they  knew  that  old 
John  Bedell,  at  the  poise  of  death,  cheered 
thrice,  "  Hurrah  !  Hurrah  !  Hurrah  for  the 
King ! " 

They  found  his  body  a  week  afterward,  float- 


270  JOHN  BEDELL,   U.  E.  LOYALIST. 

ing  with  the  heaving  water  in  the  gorge  below 
the  Falls.  Though  beaten  almost  out  of  recog- 
nition, portions  of  clothing  still  adhered  to  it, 
and  in  a  waistcoat  pocket  they  found  the  old 
Loyalist's  metal  snuff-box,  with  this  inscription 
scratched  by  knife-point  on  the  cover :  "  God  be 
praised,  I  die  in  British  waters  !    John  Bedell." 


ii^ 


V 


VERBITZSKY'S   STRATAGEM. 


WHAT  had  Alexander  Verbitzsky  and  I 
done  that  the  secret  service  of  our 
father,  the  Czar,  should  dog  us  for  five  months, 
and  in  the  end  drive  us  to  Siberia,  whence  we 
have,  by  the  goodness  of  God,  escaped  from 
Holy  Russia,  our  mother?  They  called  us 
Nihilists  —  as  if  all  Nihilists  were  of  one  way  of 
thinking ! 

We  did  not  belong  to  the  Terrorists,  —  the 
section  that  believes  in  killing  the  tyrant  or  his 
agents  in  hope  that  the  hearts  of  the  mighty 
may  be  shaken  as  Fbavaoh's  was  in  Egypt  long 
ago.  No ;  we  w^e  tv;o  sti^vVnts  of  nineteen 
years  old,  belonging  lo  the  section  of  "  peasant- 
ists,"  or  of  Peaceful  Education,  Its  members 
solemnly  devote  all  their  lives  to  teaching  the 


272 


VERBirZSKY'S  STRATAGEM. 


poor  people  to  read,  think,  save,  avoid  vodka, 
and  seek  quietly  for  such  liberty  with  order  as 
here  in  America  all  enjoy.  Was  that  work  a 
crime  in  Verbitzsky  and  me  ?  ■ 

Was  it  a  crime  for  us  to  steal  to  the  freight- 
shed  of  the  Moscow  and  St.  Petersburg  Railway 
that  night  in  December  two  years  ago  ?  We  sat 
in  the  superintendent's  dark  office,  and  talked 
to  the  eight  trainmen  that  were  brought  in  by 
the  guard  of  the  eastern  gate,  who  had  belonged 
to  all  the  sections,  but  was  no  longer  "  active." 

We  were  there  to  prevent  a  crime.  At  the 
risk  of  our  lives,  we  two  went  to  save  the  Czar 
of  all  the  Russias,  though  well  we  knew  that 
Dmitry  Nolenki,  chief  of  the  secret  police,  had 
offered  a  reward  on  our  capture. 

Boris  Kojukhov  and  the  other  seven  trainmen 
who  came  with  him  had  been  chosen,  with  ten 
others  who  were  not  Nihilists,  to  operate  the 
train  that  was  to  bear  His  Imperial  Majesty  next 
day  to  St.  Petersburg.  Now  Boris  was  one  of 
the  Section  of  Terror,  and  most  terrible  was 


\i 


VERBITZSKY'S  STRATAGEM. 


273 


W 


his  scheme.  Kojukhov  was  not  really  his  name 
I  may  tell  you.  Little  did  the  Czar's  railway 
agents  suspect  that  Boris  was  a  noble,  and 
brother  to  the  gentle  girl  that  had  been  sent  to 
Siberia.  No  wonder  the  heart  of  Boris  was  hot 
,  and  his  brain  partly  crazed  when  he  learned  of 
Zina's  death  in  the.  starvation  strike  at  the  Olek 
Mines. 

Verbitzsky  was  cousin  to  Zina  and  Boris,  and 
as  his  young  head  was  a  wise  one,  Boris  wished 
to  consult  him.  We  both  went,  hoping  to  per- 
suade him  out  of  the  crime  he  meditated. 

"  No,"  said  Boris,  "  my  mind  is  made  up.  I 
may  never  have  such  another  chance.  I  will 
fling  these  two  bombs  under  the  foremost  car  at 
the  middle  of  the  Volga  Bridge.  The  tyrant 
and  his  staff  'ihall  all  plunge  with  us  down  to 
death  in  the  river." 

"  The  bombs  —  have  you  them  here  ?  "  asked 
Verbitzsky  in  the  dark. 

"  I  have  them  in  my  hands,"  said  Boris,  tap- 
ping them  lightly  together.     "  I   have  carried 

18 


it. 


Sfeii 


274 


VERBITZSKY'S  STRATAGEM. 


i  i 


them  in  my  inner  clothing  for  a  week.  They 
give  me  warmth  at  rry  heart  as  I  think  how 
they  shall  free  Holy  Russia." 

There  was  a  stir  of  dismay  in  the  dark  office. 
The  comrades,  though  -villing  to  risk  death  at 
the  Volga  Bridge,  were  horrified  by  Kojukhov's 
tapping  of  the  iron  bombs  together,  and  all  rose 
in  fear  of  their  explosion,  all  except  Verbitzsky 
and  me. 

"  For  God's  sake,  be  more  careful,  Boris  !  " 
said  my  friend. 

"Oh,  you're  afraid,  too?"  said  Kojukhov. 
"  Pah  !  you  cowards  of  the  Peace  Section  ! " 
He  tapped  the  bombs  together  again. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  Verbitzsky.  "  Why 
should  I  die  for  your  reckless  folly?  Will  any 
good  happen  if  you  explode  the  bombs  here? 
You  will  but  destroy  all  of  us,  and  our  friends 
the  watchmen,  and  the  freight-sheds  containing 
the  property  of  many  worthy  people." 

"  You  nre  a  fool,  Verbitzsky !  "  said  his 
cousin.     "Come  hare.     Whisper." 


w 


VERBITZSKY'S  STRATAGEM. 


275 


Something  Boris  then  whispered  in  my  com- 
rade's ear.  When  Verbitzsky  spoke  again  his 
voice  seemed  calmer. 

"  Let  me  feel  the  shape,"  he  said. 

"  Here,"  said  Boris,  as  if  handing  something 
to  Verbitzsky. 

At  that  moment  the  outer  door  of  the  freight- 
shed  resounded  with  a  heavy  blow.  The  next 
blow,  as  from  a  heavy  maul,  pounded  the  door 
open.  •    - 

"  The  police  !  "  shouted  Boris.  "  They  must 
have  dogged  you,  Alexander,  for  they  don't  sus- 
pect me."  He  dashed  out  of  the  dark  ofifice 
into  the  great  dark  shed. 

As  we  all  ran  forth,  glancing  at  the  main  door 
about  seventy  feet  distant,  we  saw  a  squad  of 
police  outlined  against  the  moonlit  sky  beyond 
the  gr'^at  open  space  of  railway  yard.  My  eyes 
were  dazzled  by  a  headlight  that  one  of  them 
carried.  By  that  lamp  they  must  have  seen  us 
cleci.'y ;  for  as  we  st:  ^ted  to  run  away  down  the 
long  shed  they  opened  fire,  and  I  stumbled 
over  Boris  Kojukhov,  as  he  fell  with  a  shriek. 


276 


VERBITZSKY'S  STRATAGEM. 


Rising,  I  dodged  aside,  thinking  to  avoid 
bullets,  and  then  dashed  against  a  bale  of  wool, 
one  of  a  long  row.  Clambering  over  it,  I 
dropped  beside  a  man  crouching  on  the  other 
side. 

"  Michael,  is  it  you  ?  "  whispered  Verbitzsky. 

"Yes.     We  're  lost,  of  course?  " 

"  No.     Keep  still.     Let  them  pass." 

The  police  ran  past  us  down  th  ^  middle  aisle 
left  between  high  walls  of  wool  bales.  They 
did  not  notice  the  narrow  side  lane  in  which  we 
were  crouching. 

"  Come.  I  know  a  way  out,"  said  Verbitzsky. 
"  I  was  all  over  here  this  morning,  looking 
round,  in  case  we  should  be  surprised  to-night." 

"What's  this?"  I  whispered,  groping,  and 
touching  something  in  his  hand. 

"  Kojukhov's  bombs.  I  have  them  both. 
Come.     Ah,  poor  Boris,  he  's  with  Zina  now  !  " 

The  bomb  was  a  section  of  iron  pipe  about 
two  inches  in  diameter  and  eighteen  inches 
long.     Its   ends   were   closed   with   iron  caps. 


«.  I 


VERBITZSKY'S  STRATAGEM. 


277- 


Filled  with  nitroglycerine,  such  pipes  are  terri- 
ble shells,  which  explode  by  concussion.  I  was 
amazed  to  think  of  the  recklessness  of  Boris  in 
tapping  them  together. 

"  Put  them  down,  Verbitzsky  !  "  I  whispered, 
as  we  groped  our  way  between  high  walls  of 
bales. 

"  No,  no,  they  're  weapons  !  "  he  whispered. 
"We  may  need  them." 

"  Then  for  the  love  of  the  saints,  be  careful !  " 

"  Don't  be  afraid,"  he  said,  as  we  neared  a 
small  side  door. 

Meantime,  we  heard  the  police  run  after  the 
Terrorists,  who  brought  up  against  the  great 
door  at  the  south  end.  As  they  tore  away  the 
bar  and  opened  the  door  they  shouted  with  dis- 
may. They  had  been  confronted  by  another 
squad  of  police  !  For  a  few  moments  a  con- 
fusion of  sounds  came  to  us,  all  somewhat 
muffled  by  passing  up  and  over  the  high  walls 
of  baled  wool. 

"  Boris  !     Where  are  you?  "  cried  one. 


V      \ 


273 


VERBITZSKY'S  STRATAGEM. 


It 


tt 


\ 


*'  He  's  killed  !  "  cried  another. 
"  Oh,  if  we  had  the  bombs  !  " 

He  gave  them  to  Verbitzsky." 

Verbitzsky,  where  are  you  ?    Throw  them  ! 
Let  us  all  die  together  !  " 

Ml 

'*  Yes,  it 's  doath  to  be  taken  !  " 

Then  we  h<  ard  shots,  blows,  and  shrieks,  all 
in  confusion.  After  a  little  there  was  clatter  of 
grounded  arms,  and  then  no  sound  but  the 
heavy  breathing  of  men  who  had  been  struggling 
hard.  That  silence  was  a  bad  thing  for  Ver- 
bitzsky and  me,  because  the  police  heard  the 
opening  of  the  small  side  door  through  which 
Alexander  next  moment  led.  In  a  moment  we 
dashed  out  into  the  clear  night,  over  the  tracks, 
toward  the  Petrovsky  Gardens. 

As  v/e  reached  the  railway  yard  the  police 
ran  round  their  end  of  the  wool-shed  in  pursuit 
—  ten  of  them.  The  others  stayed  with  the 
prisoners. 

*'  Don't  fire  !  Don't  shoot !  "  cried  a  voice 
we  knew  well,  —  the  voice  of  Dmitry  Nolenki, 
chief  of  the  secret  police. 


vV 


VERBITZSKV'S  STRATAGEM. 


279 


'*  One  of  them  is  Verbitzsky  !  "  he  cried  to 
his  men.  "  The  conspirator  I  Ve  been  after  for 
four  months.  A  hundred  roubles  for  him  who 
first  seizes  him  !     He  must  be  taken  alive  !" 

That  offer,  I  si  nose,  was  what  pushed  them 
to  such  eagrrP'  s  tl  at  they  all  soon  fell  them- 
selves at  our  mc  And  that  offer  was  what 
caused  them  to  foUo^"  so  silently,  lest  other 
police  should  overhear  a  tumult  and  run  to  head 
us  off. 

Verbitzsky,  though  encumbered  by  the  bombs, 
kept  the  lead,  for  he  was  a  very  swift  runner.  I 
followed  close  at  his  heels.  We  could  hear 
nothing  in  the  great  walled-in  railway  yard 
except  the  clack  of  feet  on  gravel,  and  some- 
times on  the  network  of  steel  tracks  that  shone 
silvery  as  the  hard  snow  under  the  round  moon. 

My  comrade  ran  like  a  man  who  knows 
exactly  where  he  means  to  go.  Indeed,  he 
had  already  determined  to  follow  a  plan  that 
had  long  before  occurred  to  him.  It  was"  a 
vision  of  what  one  or  two  desperate  men  with 


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VERBITZSKY'S  STRATAGEM. 


bombs   might   do   at  close  quarters   against  a 
number  with  pistols. 

As  Verbitzsky  approached  the  south  end  of 
the  yard,  which  is  excavated  deeply  and  walled 
in  from  the  surrounding  streets,  he  turned,  to 
my  amazement,  away  from  the  line  that  led  into 
the  suburbs,  and  ran  along  four  tracks  that  led 
under  a  street  bridge. 

•This  bridge  was  fully  thirty  feet  overhead, 
and  flanked  by  wings  of  masonry.  The  four 
tracks  led  into  a  small  yard,  almost  surrounded 
by  high  stone  warehouses;  a  yard  devoted 
solely  to  turn-tables  for  locomotives.  There 
was  no  exit  from  it  except  under  the  bridge  that 
we  passed  beneath. 

"  Good  ! "  we  heard  Nolenki  cry,  fifty  yards 
behind.     "  We  have  them  now  in  a  trap  !  " 

At  that,  Verbitzsky,  still  in  the  moonlight, 
slackened  speed,  half-turned  as  if  in  hesitation, 
then  ran  on  more  slowly,  with  zigzag  steps,  as  if 
desperately  looking  for  a  way  out.  But  he  said 
to  me  in  a  low,  panting  voice  :  — 


\v 


VERBITZSKY  '5  S  TRA  TA  GEM. 


281 


*^  We  shall  escape.     Do  exactly  as  I  do." 

When  the  police  were  not  fifty  feet  behind  us, 
Verbitzsky  jumped  down  about  seven  feet  into 
a  wide  pit.  I  jumped  to  his  side.  We  were 
now  standing  in  the  walled-in  excavation  for  a 
new  locomotive  turn-table.  This  pit  was  still 
free  from  its  machinery  and  platform. 

"  We  are  done  now  !  "  I  said,  staring  around 
as  Verbitzsky  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the 
circular  pit,  which  was  some  forty  feet  wide. 

Just  as  the  police  came  crowding  to  the  edge, 
Verbitzsky  fell  on  his  knees  as  if  in  surrender. 
In  their  eagerness  to  lay  first  hands  on  him,  all 
the  police  jumped  down  except  the  chief,  Dmitry 
Nolenki.  Some  fell.  As  those  who  kept  their 
feet  rushed  toward  us,  Verbitzsky  sprang  up  and 
ran  to  the  opposite  wall,  with  me  at  his  heels. 

Three  seconds  later  the  foremost  police  were 
within  fifteen  feet  of  us.  Then  Verbitzsky 
raised  his  terrible  bombs. 

From  high  above  the  roofs  of  the  warehouses 
the  full  moon  so  clearly  illuminated  the  yard 


:!82 


VERBITZSKY'S  STRATAGEM, 


that  we  could  see  every  button  on  our  assailants* 
coats,  and  even  the  puffs  of  fat  Nolenki's  breath. 
He  stood  panting  on  the  opposite  wall  of  the 
excavation. 

"  Halt,  or  die  ! "  cried  Verbitzsky,  in  a  ter- 
rible voice. 

The  bombs  were  clearly  to  be  seen  in  his 
hands.  Every  policeman  in  Moscow  knew  of 
the  destmction  done,  only  six  days  before,  by 
just  such  weapons.  The  foremost  men  halted 
instantly.  The  impetus  of  those  behind  brought 
all  together  in  a  bunch  —  nine  expectants  of 
instant  death.    Verbitzsky  spoke  again  :  — 

"  If  any  man  moves  hand  or  foot,  I  '11  throw 
these,"  he  cried.     "  Listen  ! " 

"Why,  you  fool,"  said  Nolenki,  a  rather 
slow-witted  man,  "you  can't  escape.  Surren- 
der instantly."  r  . 

He  drew  his  revolver  and  pointed  it  at  us. 

"Michael,"  sard  Verbitzsky  to  me,  in  that 
steely  voice  w!  I  had  never  before  heard 
from  my  gentle  comrade,  "Michael,  Nolenki 


W 


\  ■■ 


i 


VERBITZSKY'S  STRATAGEM, 


283 


can  shoot  but  one  of  us  before  he  dies.  Take 
this  bomb.  Now  if  he  hits  me  yor  throw  your 
bomb  at  him.     If  he  hits  you  I  will  throw  mine." 

"Infernal  villains!"  gasped  the  chief;  but 
we  could  see  his  pistol  wavering. 

"  Michael,"  resumed  Verbitzsky,  "  we  will 
give  Nolenki  a  chance  for  his  life.  Obey  me 
exactly !  Listen !  If  Dmitry  Nolenki  does 
not  jump  down  into  this  pit  before  I  say  five, 
throw  your  bomb  straight  at  him !  I  will,  at 
the  moment  I  say  five,  throw  mine  at  these 
rascals." 

*'  Madman  !  "  cried  Nolenki.  "  Do  you 
think  to  — " 

He  stopped  as  if  paralyzed.  I  suppose  he 
had  suddenly  understood  that  the  explosion  of 
a  bomb  in  that  small,  high-walled  yard  would 
kill  every  man  in  it. 

"  One  !  "  cried  Verbitzsky. 

"  But  I  may  not  hit  him  !  "  said  I. 

"No  matter.  If  it  explodes  within  thirty 
feet  of  him  he  will  move  no  more." 


284 


VERBITZSKY^S  STRATAGEM. 


I  took  one  step  forward  and  raised  the  bomb. 
Did  I  mean  to  throw  it?  I  do  not  know.  I 
think  not.  But  I  knew  we  must  make  the 
threat  or  be  captured  and  hung.  And  I  felt 
certain  that  the  bomb  would  be  exploded  any- 
way when  Verbitzsky  should  say  "  P'ive."  He 
would  then  throw  his,  and  mine  would  explode 
by  the  concussion. 

"  Two  !  "  said  Verbitzsky. 

Dmitry  Nolenki  had  lowered  his  pistol.  He 
glanced  behind  him  uneasily. 

"  If  he  runs,  throw  it !  "  said  Verbitzsky, 
loudly.     "THREE!" 

The  chief  of  the  Moscow  secret  police  was 
reputed  a  brave  man,  but  he  was  only  a  cruel 
one.  Now  his  knees  trembled  so  that  we  could 
see  them  shake,  and  his  teeth  chattered  in  the 
still  cold  night.  Verbitzsky  told  me  afterward 
that  he  feared  the  man's  slow  brain  had  become 
so  paralyzed  by  fright  that  he  might  not  be  able 
to  think  and  obey  and  jump  down.  That  would 
have  placed  my  comrade  and  me  in  a  dreadful 


% 


VERBITZSKY'S  STRATAGEM, 


285 


i 


dilemma,  but  quite  a  different  one  from  what 
you  may  suppose. 

As  if  to  make  Nolenki  reflect,  Verbitzsky 
spoke  more  slowly :  — 

"  If  Dmitry  Nolenki  jumps  down  into  this  pit 
before  I  say  five,  do  not  throw  the  bomb  at  him. 
You  understand,  Michael,  do  not  throw  if  he 
jumps  down  instantly.     Four!" 

Nolenki's  legs  were  so  weak  that  he  could 
not  walk  to  the  edge.  In  trying  to  do  so  he 
stumbled,  fell,  crawled,  and  came  in  head  first, 
a  mere  heap. 

"  Wise  Nolenki !  "  said  my  comrade,  with  a 
laugh.  Then  in  his  tone  of  desperate  resolution, 
"  Nolenki,  get  down  on  your  hands  and  knees, 
and  put  your  head  against  that  wall.  Don't 
move  now — if  you  wish  to  live." 

"  Now,  men,"  he  cried  to  the  others  in  mili- 
tary fashion,  "  right  about,  face  !  " 

They  hesitated,  perhaps  fearful  that  he  would 
throw  at  them  when  they  turned. 

"  About !  instantly  !  "  he  cried.  They  all 
turned. 


386 


VERBtT2SKY*S  STRATAGEM. 


"  Now,  men,  you  see  your  chief.  At  the  word 
'March,'  go  and  kneel  in  a  row  beside  him, 
your  heads  against  that  wall.  Hump  your 
backs  as  high  as  you  can.  If  any  man  moves  to 
get  out,  all  will  suffer  together.  You  under- 
stand?" 

**  Yes  !  yes  1  yes !  "  came  in  an  agony  of 
abasement  from  their  lips. 

"  March  ! " 

When  they  were  all  kneeling  in  a  row,  Ver- 
bitzsky  said  to  me  clearly  :  — 

"Michael,  you  can  easily  get  to  the  top  of 
that  wall  from  any  one  of  their  backs.  No  man 
will  dare  to  move.  Go !  Wait  on  the  edge  ! 
Take  your  bomb  with  you  !  " 

I  obeyed.  I  stood  on  a  man's  back.  I  laid 
my  bomb  with  utmost  care  on  the  wall,  over 
which  I  could  then  see.  Then  I  easily  lifted 
myself  out  by  my  hands  and  elbows. 

"  Good  !  "  said  Verbitzsky.  "  Now,  Michael, 
stand  there  till  I  come.    If  they  try  to  seize  me. 


3 
* 

throw  your  bomb. 

We  can  all  die  together." 

.         .            ~  "^ 

' 

■      ■• 

ir 

'      .  ■     :                                                 ■  ■■  '  - 

[               '■' 

! 

.   - 

I'i  • 
If    ' 

,  -          ■  "    ^  - 

it'  i- 

■   '  \  '■ 

* 

1 

VERBITZSKV  '5  S  TRA  TA  OEM. 


287 


id 


^1, 


'y         t 


In  half  a  minute  he  had  stepped  on  Nolenki's 
back.  Nolenki  groaned  with  abasement.  Next 
moment  Verbitzsky  was  beside  me. 

"  Give  me  your  bomb.  Now,  Michael,"  he 
said  loudly,  "  I  will  stand  guard  over  these 
wretches  till  I  see  you  beyond  the  freight-sheds. 
Walk  at  an  ordinary  pace,  lest  }ou  be  seen  and 
suspected." 

"  But  you  ?  They  '11  rise  and  fire  at  you  as 
you  run,"  I  said. 

"  Of  course  they  will.  But  you  will  escape. 
Here!     Good-bye!" 

He  embraced  me,  and  whispered  in  my  ear : 

"  Go  the  opposite  way  from  the  freight-sheds. 
Go  out  toward  the  Petrovsky  Gardens.  There 
are  few  police  there.  Run  hard  after  you  've 
walked  out  under  the  bridge  ar/1  around  the 
abutments.     You  will  then  be  out  ot  hearing." 

"  Go,  dear  friend,"  he  said  aloud,  in  a  mourn- 
ful voice.  "  I  may  never  see  you  again.  Pos- 
sibly I  may  have  to  destroy  myself  and  all 
here.     Go  I  " 


388 


VBRBITZSKY'S  STRATAGEM. 


I  obeyed  precisely,  and  had  not  fairly  reached 
the  yasd's  end  when  Verbitzsky,  running  very 
silently,  came  up  beside  me. 

"  I  think  they  must  be  still  fancying  that  I  'm 
standing  over  them,"  he  chuckled.  **  No,  they 
are  shooting  I     Now,  out  they  come  I  " 

From  where  we  now  stood  in  shadow  we 
could  see  Nolenki  and  his  men  rush  furiously 
out  from  under  the  bridge.  They  ran  away 
from  us  toward  the  freight- sheds,  shouting  the 
alarm,  while  we  calmly  walked  home  to  our 
unsuspected  lodgings. 

Not  till  then  did  I  think  of  the  bombs. 

"  Where  are  they?  "  I  asked  in  alarm. 

"  I  left  them  for  the  police.  They  will  ruin 
Nolenki  —  it  was  he  who  sent  poor  Zina  to 
Siberia  and  her  death." 

"  Ruin  him?  "  I  said,  wondering.        , 

"Yes."  .  ;•:    ■■■;  ;'    -v^-;-^'^' 

<<Why?"  '  V     ;    '7  ' 

"  They  were  not  loaded."  ' 

''Not  loaded!"  \      " 


\ 


VERBITZSKY'S  STRATAGEM 


289 


lached 
I  very 

It  I'm 
0,  they 

low  we 
ariously 
n  away 
ing  the 
to  our 


« 


'  That 's  what  Boris  whispered  to  me  in  the 
wool-shed  ofifice.  He  meant  to  load  them 
to-morrow  before  going  to  His  Imperial  Ma- 
jesty's train.  Nolenki  will  be  laughed  to  death 
in  Moscow,  if  not  sent  to  Siberia." 

Verbitzsky  was  right.  Nolenki,  after  being 
laughed  nearly  to  death,  was  sent  to  Siberia  in 
disgrace,  and  we  both  worked  in  the  same  gang 
with  him  for  eight  months  before  we  escaped 
from  the  Ural  Mines.  No  doubt  he  is  working 
there  yet. 


s. 


will  ruin 
Zina  to 


THE    END. 


